Pacho Maglio: Der König des Tangos (1915)

Juan „Pacho“ Maglio, 1880-1934

(English version)

Die folgenden Photographien erschienen 1915 in einer Wochenzeitschrift in Buenos Aires. Der Artikel ist einer der ersten, der einen Tangomusiker nicht als Einwohner der verarmten Vororte Buenos Aires darstellt, sondern als überaus erfolgreichen Berufsmusiker. Er schildert wenig über Maglios Leben und Laufbahn, aber zur Zeit seines Erscheinens der Name „Pacho“ allgemein bekannt. Maglio gehörte zur ersten Schallplattenprominenz der música criolla und des Bandoneons. 

 Pacho Maglio mit seiner Frau Teresa

Um 1915 war das Badoneon noch kein weit verbreitetes Instrument. Julio De Caro berichtet in seiner Autobiographie, dass die Ankunft eines neuen Bandoneons im Musikgeschäft seines Vaters eine kleine Sensation war. Ein guter Teil der Tangomusiker von Buenos Aires fand sich im Geschäft ein, um das Instrument zu begutachten

Ein Grund für die verhältnismäßige Seltenheit des Instruments war sein hoher Preis, der fünf mal höher lag als der einer Gitarre.

Auch für Maglios Familie war es ein teures Instrument. Der Vater spielte Bandoneon und Akkordeon. Schon als Kind wollte Pacho das Instrument sehnlichst spielen lernen, aber die Familie konnte es sich nicht leisten, ein ihm passendes Instrument zu kaufen, geschweige denn für Unterricht mit einem Lehrer aufzukommen. Erst als Jugendlicher begann er, Bandoneon zu spielen.

 Pacho Maglio als Vierjähriger

Wie andere Tangomusiker, die nicht in einem musikalischen Haushalt aufwuchsen, begann Maglio seine musikalische Karriere mit 18 Jahren, als er sich als Erwachsener von seinem Elternhaus unabhängig machen konnte. Vorher hatter in einer Werkstatt als Mechaniker gearbeitet, um zum Familienunterhalt beizutragen. 1898 nahm er Bandoneon-Stunden bei Domingo Santa Cruz (dem Komponisten von Unión Cívica), und ein Jahr später debütierte er als Berufsmusiker.

Pacho Maglio war der erste Bandoneonist, der als Solist auf Schallplatte aufgenommen wurde. Sein erstes Engagement in einem Café in einem Vorort von Buenos Aires brachte ihm 3 Pesos pro Tag ein. 15 Jahre später spielte er im Stadtzentrum und bezog ein stattliches Einkommen von monatlich 550 Pesos.

Seine erste Komposition, El Zurdo, wurde 1912 veröffentlicht und verkaufte 2.000 Kopien. Innerhalb der nächsten zwei Jahre folgten Un copetín, Armenonville, Cuasi nada, Adelita, Chile, und Anda pato, die alle in mehreren Auflagen erschienen.

 Zeitungswerbung für Schallplatten mit „Professor“ Juan Maglio, 1914

1912 begann er, Schallplatten für die nordamerikanische Firma Columbia aufzunehmen. „Pacho“ wurde ein allbekannter Name und Inbegriff für Tango-Schallplatten. Maglio gab an, dass er in 1914 (dem Jahr, in dem die obige Anzeige erschien) 12.000 Pesos durch Schallplatten einnahm.

© 2018 Wolfgang Freis

Pacho Maglio, The King of Tango (1915)

Juan “Pacho” Maglio, 1880-1934

(German Version)

The photographs included here appeared in a weekly magazine published in 1915 in Buenos Aires. The article relates little about Maglio and his career but by the time the article appeared, “Pacho” had become a household name. Maglio was the first recording celebrity of the bandoneon and the música criolla. The article is one of the first to portray a tango musician not as denizen of the impoverished suburbs of Buenos Aires, but as a highly successful professional.

Pacho Maglio and his wife Teresa

In 1915, the bandoneon was still not a very common instrument. Julio De Caro reported in his autobiography that the arrival of a new bandoneon in his father's music store was a bit of a sensation. A good portion of Buenos Aires tango musicians would stop by to examine the instrument.

One reason for the relative rarity of the instrument was its high price. It cost five times as much as a guitar, for example.

It was a high price for Pacho Maglio's family as well. His father played the bandoneon and accordion.  Pacho desperately wanted to learn the instrument but his family could not afford to purchase one suitable for a child, let alone engage a teacher. Eventually he started to learn the instrument as a teenager.

Pacho Maglio at age 4

Like other tango musicians who did not grow up in families of musicians, Maglio embarked on his musical career at age 18, when he reached adulthood. Before he had worked at a machine shop in order to contribute to the family income. In 1898, he began taking bandoneon lessons from Domingo Santa Cruz, the composer of Unión Cívica, and one year later he made his debut as a professional musician.

Pacho Maglio was the first bandoneon player to be recorded as a soloist. His first engagement in a suburban café of Buenos Aires brought him some 3 pesos per day. By 1914 he performed in the center of town and earned a handsome salary of 550 pesos monthly.

His first composition, El Zurdo, was published in 1912 and sold 2,000 copies. Within the next two years followed Un copetín, Armenonville, Cuasi nada, Adelita, Chile, and Anda pato, all of which went through various editions.

Advertisement of records of "Professor" Juan Maglio, 1914

His career as a recording musician began in 1912 with the North-American company Columbia. “Pacho” a household name and a synonym for tango records. Maglio indicated that his income from recordings in 1914 (the year in which the above advertisement was published) amounted to 12,000 pesos.

© 2018 Wolfgang Freis

The Kings of Tango: Julio De Caro

The Kings of Tango: with Julio De Caro,

the popular composer of “Buen amigo”, “Todo corazon”, and “Guardia vieja” [An interview conducted by Ernesto E. de la Fuente, Buenos Aires, 1928]

Julio De Caro is one of the youngest composers of Buenos Aires. What is more, his particular appearance makes him seem even younger than he is. Optimism issues from his demeanor, and his words can not conceal the satisfaction that saturates his spirit in view of the artistic perspectives unfolding in his future.

—Porteño, good friend De Caro?

—With pedigree. I was born at the corner of Catamarca and Méjico, where I also spent the years of my childhood and carried out unforgettable pranks in the company of other neighborhood kids.

—Unforgettable pranks?

—Good heavens, they were indeed. The glass panes of the street lights and the door-to-door salesmen, which were our preferred victims, could tell you about it.

—You were not inclined toward music, then?

—Exactly. My father was a musician and did not wish that I would become one, too. Therefore, and much to my regret , I went through the grades of primary school in order to enter, later, the Colegio Nacional Mariano Moreno.

—What was your goal?

—To be a doctor, but a good one. In spite of my artistic success, I still believe that I could have become a physician capable of being recognized and making an impression.

—But...

—There are things in life that can not be foreseen, since they appear to have been arranged by destiny.

—As with your beginnings in music?

—I owe them to my father. In the hours when I was free from school work I learned solfege and violin—out of obligation more than preference—but by dint of force, it seems I made good progress, as my family and other people that came to our house asserted.

—And your first success?

—It was a coincidence, since I had never played in public before and never considered doing so. Neither did I apply myself to musical composition until, all of a sudden, something awoke in me that could be called the musical instinct. I was a sleeper, so to speak.

—When did you have your debut?

—I was hardly 15 years old. One afternoon, a friend and I decided to go downtown to a dance that was going to take place. The orchestra of my good friend Firpo, that performed with enviable success, used to be there.

—And?

—During one of the intermissions, some of my friends asked me to go to the orchestra stand and play a piece. I did it not without some discomfort, but since I was already put in a trance to confront the situation I tried to accomplish it as best I could.

—A success?

—Complete. I was much applauded, and one moment later my good friend Arolas called on me to offer me the position of first violin in his orchestra. I did not accept. First of all I wanted to continue my studies. He asked me to play with him for only one month, and with the consent of my father I did so.

—And you abandoned your studies?

—It was inevitable. My unexpected triumphs pleased me and I could not give up the musical career anymore.

—And your first tango composition?

—I conceived it while I was working in the Arolas ensemble, one night when we were performing at a cabaret in the center. It was “Mala pinta”, a tango that later attained a really considerable success and which encouraged me to proceed in my career as a composer.

—Which other successful works do you remember?

—It would be impossible for me to remember the names of all my tangos. There are perhaps more than a hundred. But “Buen amigo”, “Tu promesa”, “Mala Junta”, “El Malevo”, “Copacabana”, “Tiny”, “Todo corazón”, “Guardia Vieja”, among others, were widely recognized.

—With practical and positive results?

—With success in every sense, even more since I started to make recordings with my orchestra, which I set up together with my brothers Francisco and Emilio and the friends Maffia, Laurenz, Blasco and Sciarreta.

—And your plans for the future?

—There are many, but I think I must make a trip to Europe very soon, where we will have the opportunity to work intensely. I have already received some extremely favorable offers that I would regret not to accept.

—Also dressed up as gauchos?

—Disguised as gauchos, you mean. Believe me, it pains me to think that it is necessary to have recourse to such means in order to excite the audience in Europe.

—Now that your career is definitely on track, do you have any particular ambition?

—To go to New York, to the joyful people of Broadway, and show them that tango is beautiful, that they do not understand it, and then—playing it in its various styles—make them understand it well: right in the middle of that world of joy, profusion, excitement, and life.

—Which are the strongest satisfactions that your musical career has bestowed you?

—The sympathy that the Argentinian public is showing me, the smiles with which the people of Buenos Aires greet me. There are many among them who praise me and whose words and charm make me immensely happy. However, one great satisfaction that will allow me to take another big step in my career remains to be fulfilled.

—What is it?

—An invitation by the Prince of Wales to come to London in order to promote the “genuine Argentinian tango” there.

—Did he have the opportunity to become acquainted with it?

—I performed with my orchestra at one of the private parties given in his honor when he was in Buenos Aires. One tango, which he had requested, had to be repeated seven times. And after the wish of the prestigious visitor had been granted, he said to me:

—“You must go to London.”

—“I shall go, your Highness” I answered. And I expect that within the next eight months I will be performing in the British capital. Upon his request, I sent the Prince of Wales a series of records with Argentinian tangos, and I treasure the letter in which he thanked me for the gift as one of my most precious souvenirs.

—So, De Caro, are you a happy man?

—To date, I can state that I am. But I will be much more so the day of my debut in the capital of the great empire, when I see the successor to the crown attending my concert; and that day, too, when I shall succeed in imposing the tango criollo in the midst of the bustle and feverish joyfulness of the Broadway nights.

Remarks

De Caro's Debut

In his autobiography, published in 1964, De Caro offered a slightly different account of his debut as a tango musician. According to this later version, he was close to 18 years old and played "La cumparsita" with the Firpo orchestra at the “Palais de Glace”. Since “La cumparsita” was composed and premiered during the carnival season of 1917, De Caro must have been at least 17 years old (his 18th birthday falling on December 11, 1917), and not 15 as stated in the interview.

Furthermore, according to his autobiography, he started to play in Arola's orchestra secretly, without the consent of his father. When his father demanded that De Caro quit the orchestra and he refused, he was shown the door and for many years had no further contact with his father.

Tango “Buen amigo”

Julio De Caro dedicated his tango “Buen amigo” to a distinguished Argentinian physician, Enrique Finochietto, who had saved the lives of a friend's wife and child. Finochietto was also a tango enthusiast and admirer of De Caro. He was a regular visitor of De Caro's performances at the “Chanteclair” cabaret in the mid-1920s. De Caro composed a tango, dedicated it to Finochietto, and named it "Buen amigo" in the latter's honour.

The Prince of Wales

Edward III, the Prince of Wales, visited Buenos Aires in 1925. A gala dance in his honor was given at the cabaret “Ciro's”, where which the Julio De Caro orchestra provided the musical entertainment. In the course of the evening, Edward also entered the dance floor during a performance of the tango “Buen amigo”. Shortly thereafter, De Caro was privately introduced to Edward in the office of the cabaret's director. Edward expressed his admiration for De Caro's music and the tango “Buen amigo”, in particular. At a later date, De Caro paid his respects to Edward by sending recordings of his orchestra (which included “Buen amigo”) and, at the occasion of Edwards's marriage, dedicated his tango “Dulce Hogar” to the then Duke of Windsor.





©2017 Translation and Commentary Wolfgang Freis.

The Ingenious Pedro Blanco

In his autobiography, Julio De Caro reported the discovery of an ingenious bandoneonist. In 1925, Luis Petrucelli wanted to leave the orchestra, and De Caro needed a player to replace him. By chance, he heard a young musician who impressed him so much that he offered him the job at once.

Luis Petrucelli

His decision was not unproblematic. The musician who had to be replaced was no black horse but a well-known and accomplished bandoneonist. It was a difficult task for a young musician with little experience to take the place of an experience professional.

What is more, one of the most distinguished instrumentalists played the first bandoneon in De Caro's orchestra: Pedro Maffia. It comes as no surprise that Maffia was concerned about De Caro's decision to hire an unexperienced bandoneonist. His own reputation depended on the quality of the orchestra with which he performed. For the young musician, it was no different. To sit next to the great Maffia meant to raise the bas higher than it was already. (Years later in an interview, he admitted not to have closed an eye the night before his first performance with the orchestra.)

Pedro Maffia

It bespeaks the care and foresight with which the De Caro brothers attended to the young bandoneonist by introducing him to the orchestra only after they were sure that he was ready for the task. In an orchestra, it cannot be taken for granted that a new colleague—especially a young one—is welcomed with open arms. De Caros remark that, at their first encounter, Maffia barely greeted the neophyte and that the bassist Leopoldo Thompson for a start scrutinized him head to toe speaks volumes about the customs among musicians. To enter an established orchestra as a young and quite unexperienced musician is a challenging task—even more so if one has to hold one's ground next to an outstanding performer of the instrument. Obviously, Julio De Caro recognized the talent of the young musician. The fact that he and his brother carefully prepared him for his new assignment shows also that they knew the mentality of musicians very well and had enough experience to foster and preserve the new talent.

The bassist Leopoldo Thompson (standing left) with the orchestra Francisco Canaro, 1916

( From: Julio De Caro, El Tango en mis Recuerdos)

It was shortly before the Vogue's Club was closing until the season of the following year (1925), when Luis Petrucelli informed me that he would leave for Mar del Plata in order to combine work and summer vacation with his fiancée. I tried to dissuade him from doing so, but when he promised to rejoin the orchestra upon his return, I agreed, adding: “The bandoneon that is going to replace you will be the creditor of your seat. Well, let us be friends and we will see what the future brings.” Straightaway I focussed on the search for a new bandoneonist and tried to find out where I could find Enrique Pollet, from whom I had received the best professional references as an instrumentalist.

I was told that he performed with the orchestra of Roberto Goyneche in a café in Villa del Parque, and it was said that the group was going to dissolve soon. I went there to take a look at the bandoneons. Pollet played very well but the second bandoneonist, whom I did not know, was by no means inferior to him and had, in addition, a good sense for interpretation.

At the end of the set, I decided to hire him instead of Pollet. I asked him his name and if he knew who I was. “My name is Pedro Blanco and I have known you, Julio, for many years. I was a young kid then and listened to the orchestra of you and your partners Minotto and Eustaquio [Laurenz] in Montevideo. You do remember the Laurenz brothers!? They are my stepbrothers.”

Pedro Blanco Acosta, „Pedro B. Laurenz“

“Yes, I can place you exactly. Now more than ever, and since you are leaving this orchestra, I would like to propose that you replace Luis Petrucelli and play together with the great Pedro Maffia. And, in order not to break with the tradition of your family name, I have already renamed you professionally: Pedro B. Laurenz.”

“This offer would be the greatest thing for me, since I am finishing here tonight. But I do not think that I am up to the task because I have been playing publicly only for a short time. To play in your orchestra and replace Petrucelli, Maestro, is not easy.”

I tried to build his confidence: “Let me take care of your concerns. The only thing I ask from you is that before your debut, you rehearse seriously with my brother Francesco and me in private. Well then, I expect you tomorrow with your bandoneon at my brother's. Good luck and listen well to me. Agreed?”

As Petrucelli was not to leave before his replacement—already found in the person of Laurenz—was ready, the latter dedicated himself completely to practicing in order to announce his joining the orchestra as soon as he was in best condition and equal to the others.

Even though this was not news anymore and known by all members of the orchestra, Maffia asked me inquisitively who he was. “He is a great fellow,” I responded. “And even though he is new, I am sure you will like him!” He was very concerned, and it almost seemed to be an insult to his professional reputation that someone in his position would have to share his responsibility with an unknown. Thus the situation … but fate had bestowed a Pedro Laurenz on me. If I mention this, in particular, it is only because my discovery had a special artistic significance to my ensemble.

At the first session, Maffia—I remember it well—hardly deigned to greet Laurenz, and [Leopoldo] “el negro” Thompson examined him head to toe. Meanwhile Francisco, who knew what class he had, was smiling, imagining what would happen when this great learner opened his “pot”.

The programmed tangos were: “Todo corazón”, “Triste”, Cobián's “Los dopados“ (today “Los mareados“), Delfino's “Agua bendita”, etc. As Laurenz played the first measures, Maffia—who was watching him from the corner of his eye—could not hide his admiration. And what could one say as this novice really got started, attacked the arpeggios, and stuck to the first voice like a shadow. When we had finished, Maffia besieged me with overwhelming joy, wanting to know where I had found this “genius”. Like that, Laurenz, on his own account, had earned with one leap a position that is attained by only a few.

Laurenz played in De Caro's orchestra until 1932. Maffia wanted to start his own ensemble and left the orchestra in 1926. He was replaced Armando Blasco who, together with Laurenz, made up a “much talked-about duo” (De Caro). The De Caro orchestra broke up in 1932. De Caro than formed a larger ensemble with four bandoneons rather than two. The players were: Carlos and Romualdo Marcucci, Gabriel Clausi, and Félix Lispisker. Carlos Marcucci played the lead bandoneon. He also performed as a concert soloist and remained in the De Caro orchestra until 1953.

Der geniale Pedro Blanco

In seiner Autobiographie berichtet Julio De Caro über die Entdeckung eines genialen Bandoneonisten. Im Jahre 1925 benötigte De Caro einen neuen Instrumentalisten, da Luis Petrucelli das Orchester verlassen wollte. Zufällig hörte De Caro einen jungen Musiker, der ihn so beeindruckte, dass er ihm umgehend die Stelle des zweiten Bandoneonisten in seinem Orchester anbot.  

Luis Petrucelli

Die Entscheidung war nicht ganz unproblematisch. Der Musiker, der ersetzt werden sollte, war kein unbeschriebenes Blatt, sondern ein bekannter und versierter Bandoneonist. Für einen jungen Instrumentalisten mit wenig Erfahrung war es eine schwere Aufgabe, sich in der Position des routinierten Profis zu behaupten.

Darüber hinaus spielte einer der herausragendsten Instrumentalisten das erste Bandoneon in De Caros Orchester: Pedro Maffia. Es verwundert nicht, dass Maffia sich über De Caros Absicht, einen unbekannten und unerfahrenen Bandoneonisten einzustellen, Sorgen machte, denn Maffias Ansehen hing auch von der Qualität des Orchesters ab, mit dem er auftrat. Dem jungen Musiker ging es nicht anders. Sich neben den großen Maffia zu setzen hieß die Messlatte noch höher anzusetzen, als sie schon war. (In einem späteren Interview gab er an, in der Nacht vor den ersten Auftritt mit dem Orchester kein Auge zugetan zu haben.)

Pedro Maffia

Es spricht für die Sorgfalt und Voraussicht der Brüder De Caro, dass sie sich des jungen Bandoneonisten besonders annahmen und ihn erst dem Orchester präsentierten, als sie sicher waren, er würde sich dem Orchester gewachsen zeigen. Dass ein neuer Kollege—noch dazu ein junger—in einem Orchester mit offenen Armen aufgenommen wird, ist keineswegs eine Selbstverständlichkeit. De Caros Bemerkung, dass Maffia den Neuling kaum begrüßte und der Bassist LeopoldoThompson ihn erst einmal von Kopf bis Fuß musterte, spricht Bände über die Gepflogenheiten in Musikerkreisen. Als junger, noch recht unerfahrener Musiker in ein eingespieltes Orchester einzutreten ist eine anspruchsvolle Aufgabe—mehr noch, wenn man sich neben einem der hervorragendsten Spieler seines Instruments behaupten muss. Offensichtlich erkannte Julio De Caro das Talent des jungen Musikers. Dass er und sein Bruder ihn sorgfältig auf die neue Aufgabe vorbereiteten zeigt aber auch, dass sie die Musikermentalität gut kannten und genügend Erfahrung besaßen, dieses neue Talent zu fördern und sich zu erhalten.

Der Bassist Leopoldo Thompson (hinten links) im Orchester Francisco Canaro, 1916

( Aus: Julio De Caro, El Tango en mis Recuerdos)

Es fehlte nicht mehr viel, dass der Vogue's Club bis zur Saison des nächsten Jahres (1925) schließen würde, als Luis Petrucelli mir mitteilte, dass er nach Mar del Plata gehen würde, um Arbeit und Sommerurlaub mit seiner Verlobten zu verbinden. Ich versuchte ihn davon abzubringen, und als er mir versprach, sich bei seiner Rückkehr wieder dem Orchester anzuschließen, akzeptierte ich seinen Entschluss und fügte hinzu: „Das Bandoneon, dass für Dich eintritt, wird ein Anwärter für Deine Stelle sein. Also, lass uns Freunde bleiben, und wir werden sehen, was die Zukunft bringt.“ Sofort konzentrierte ich mich auf die Suche nach einem anderen Bandeonisten und fragte herum, wo ich Enrique Pollet, von dem ich die besten professionellen Referenzen als Instrumentalist erhalten hatte, finden könnte.

Man berichtete mir, dass er mit dem Orchester von Roberto Goyneche in einem Café in Villa del Parque auftrat, und es gingen Gerüchte um, dass sich das Ensemble bald auflösen würde. Ich ging dort hin, um mir die Bandoneons anzusehen. Pollet spielte sehr gut, aber der zweite Bandoneonist, den ich nicht kannte, war ihm keineswegs unterlegen und hatte außerdem ein gutes Gefühl für Interpretation.

Am Ende der Runde entschloss ich mich für ihn anstatt Pollet. Ich fragte ihn nach seinem Namen, und ob er mich kennen würde. „Ich heiße Pedro Blanco und Sie, Julio, kenne ich schon seit einigen Jahren. Ich war damals noch ein junger Kerl und konnte Ihnen in Montevideo mit Ihren Partnern Minotto und Eustaquio [Laurenz] in dem Orchester zuhören. Sie erinnern sich doch an die Brüder Laurenz!? Das sind meine Stiefbrüder.“

Pedro Blanco Acosta, „Pedro B. Laurenz“

„Ja, jetzt kann ich es richtig einordnen. Mehr denn je, da Sie von hier weggehen, möchte ich Ihnen anbieten, Luis Petrucelli zu ersetzen und mit dem großen Pedro Maffia zusammenzuspielen. Und um nicht mit der Tradition des Familiennamens zu brechen, habe ich Sie schon beruflich umbenannt: Pedro B. Laurenz.“

„Da ich hier heute Abend fertig bin, wäre dieses Angebot für mich das Größte. Aber ich glaube nicht, dass ich einer so großen Verantwortung gewachsen bin, denn ich spiele erst seit kurzem öffentlich. Und in Ihrem Orchester zu arbeiten, Maestro, und Petrucelli zu ersetzen, ist nicht einfach.“

Ich versuchte ihm, Selbstvertrauen einzuflößen: „Überlassen Sie Ihre Befürchtungen mir. Das Einzige, was ich von Ihnen verlange, ist, vor ihrem Debüt mit mir und Francisco privat ernsthaft zu lernen. Also, morgen erwarte ich Sie mit Ihrem Bandoneon bei meinem Bruder. Viel Glück und hören Sie mir gut zu. Einverstanden?“

Da Petrucelli nicht abreisen würde bevor eine Vertretung—in der Person von Laurenz war sie schon gefunden—einsatzfähig war, widmete sich Letzterer ganz und gar dem Üben, um seinen Eintritt ins Orchester bekanntzugegen, sobald er in hervorragender Verfassung und den anderen ebenbürtig war.

Obwohl das an sich keine Neuigkeit und allen Kollegen bekannt war, fragte mich Maffia nachforschend, wer es denn sei. „Er ist ein großartiger Bursche,“ antwortete ich ihm. „Und obwohl er neu ist, bin ich mir sicher, er wird Dir gefallen!“ Es beunruhigte ihn sehr und schien ihm fast seiner professionellen Ehre zu spotten, dass jemand in seiner Position seine Aufgabe mit einem Unbekannten teilen musste. So lagen die Dinge..., aber das Schicksal wollte mir einen Pedro Laurenz zutragen. Wenn ich es besonders hervorhebe, dann nur, weil meine Entdeckung eine besondere künstlerische Bedeutung für mein Ensemble hatte.

In der ersten Runde—ich erinnere mich gut daran—ließ sich Maffia kaum dazu herab, Laurenz zu grüßen, und [Leopoldo] „El Negro“ Thompson musterte ihn von Kopf bis Fuß. Währenddessen schmunzelte Francisco, der seine Klasse kannte, und überdachte was passieren würde, wenn dieser große Lerner seinen „Pott“ aufmachte.

Die angesetzten Tangos waren: „Todo corazón“, „Triste“, und Cobiáns „Los dopados“ (heute „Los mareados“), Delfinos „Agua bendita“, usw. Als Laurenz die ersten Takte spielte, konnte Maffia, der ihn aus den Augenwinkeln beobachtete, seine Bewunderung nicht verbergen. Und was sollte man sagen, als der Anfänger erst richtig loslegte, die Arpeggios anschlug und wie ein Schatten an der ersten Stimme klebte. Nachdem wir fertig waren, bedrängte Maffia mich mit überschäumender Freude, um zu wissen, wo ich dieses „Genie“ gefunden hatte. So erreichte Laurenz durch eigenen Verdienst mit einem Sprung eine Stellung, die nur wenigen vorbehalten ist.

Laurenz spielte im De Caro Orchester bis 1932. Maffia wollte sein eigenes Ensemble gründen und verließ 1926 das Orchester. Er wurde durch Armando Blasco ersetzt, der zusammen mit Laurenz ein Duo bildete, “dass von sich reden machte” (De Caro). Das De Caro Orchester löste sich 1932 auf. De Caro stellte dann eine neue und größereGruppe mit vier statt zwei Bandoneons zusammen. Die Spieler waren: Carlos und Romualdo Marcucci, Gabriel Clausi und Félix Lispisker. Carlos Marcucci spielte das erste Bandoneon. Er trat auch als Konzertsolist auf und hielt seine Stelle im De Caro Orchester bis 1953.

Tango Musicians Against the Music Film

In 1930, the sound film—in particular, the sound film with musical numbers (henceforth, the music film)—invaded Buenos Aires. Film presentations had never been completely silent. However, the synchronization between film and sound proved to be a difficult technological problem that was not solved reliably until the late 1920s. But even before silent films became “talkies”, their performances were accompanied by music. Musical entertainment played an important role in the movie theaters. Not only did music accompany the film during its showing, music was also played for the entertainment of the audience during breaks and intermissions. The large movie theaters in Buenos Aires typically engaged three orchestras: a large “symphonic” orchestra for the accompaniment of the file, and an orquesta típica and a jazz band playing alternately during intermissions.

[In the years before the music film made its appearance, music orchestras had become a major attraction with which the owners of the great movie theaters tried to draw in the audience. The most successful of these orchestras was the one of Julio De Caro. It performed at the “Real Cine”, “the last bastion against the music film” (De Caro), for the “fabulous amount” of 14,000 Pesos per month, the singer not included. De Caro's orchestra was financially perhaps the most successful orchestra in Buenos Aires. Some six years earlier at the "Vogue's Club", De Caro secured a contract for the phenomenal amount of 6,500 Pesos per month, which meant that every musician had a monthly salary of more that 1,000 Pesos. A young man making half his salary at the time would have been “an excellent catch for even the most demanding matchmaking mother”.]

The music films shown in 1930 broke new ground. Not only were many shot in color and displayed luxuriant sets, they were conceived as musical entertainment, so the music was an integral part of the film. The film provided the music, the singers, and the orchestras. Great news for cinema owners: one could dispense with the orchestras all together! Moreover, while silent movies and later the “talkies” had been a competition to the theater stage, the music film competed with the music stage, too.

In view of the overwhelming success of the films with the audience, it is understandable that musicians, composers, song writers, and playwrights were concerned about their future. Voices were heard calling for a prohibition of music films. For the owners of the great movie theaters, the music film was like manna from heaven; others, who suffered the consequences, foresaw ruin and desperation.

The following article, published 1930 in Buenos Aires, reflects the commotion caused by the clamorous success of the music film. The author does not offer an opinion but renders the beliefs and sentiments of the parties involved. The pictures included here were printed after the article. There is no correlation made between the statements printed in the article and the people shown in the pictures. The parties cited remained anonymous.

The Music Film Makes the Cinema Orchestras “Sound Off” in Buenos Aires

(By Emilio Dupuy de Lome, Caras y Caretas, Buenos Aires, 1930)

An Orchestra Conductor Talks

The music film is our ruin. We have been expelled by the new North-American invention. No less than 5,000 musicians are facing the terrible problem of unemployment. What can we do? To whom can we turn? This invention will be progress, but it should be prohibited in favor of Argentinian musicians who, from one day to the next, are pushed into poverty.

A Cinema Owner Talks

Finally we are free of the orchestras! They had already ruined us as well as the audience: us, because they impose on us their exploitive way of working; the audience, because this playing one piece and then resting ten minutes is not appreciated.

A Composer of Argentinian Music Talks

Step by step, the music film will terminate the patriotic sentiment of the audience.The music of Argentina is replaced by North-American music in the films, and our new generations will get used to listen to nothing else but shimmys and foxtrots.

José Razzano, left, and Julio De Caro, right, signing a petition for the prohibition of music films

The Director of an Orquesta Típica Talks

The audience misses our presence at the movies. We used to be the darling child of cinema visitors. When we were alternating with jazz orchestras and it was our turn to play, the audience rejoiced in anticipation of listening to our mournful tangos. It is the national spirit, pulsating in the spectators, that the music film is destroying. What do they want with these records?

A Record Producer Talks

The performer, the text writer, the composer, the singer of Argentinian music has had few resources besides the record. The record carried songs, dances, and melodies to the last corner of the Republic. If the record is a pillar of support to musicians and authors, to actors and singers, how can they think of it now as an enemy of the Argentinian musician.

A Distributor of Music Films Talks

I think it is a great mistake to slander the music film. Progress cannot be stopped with nationalistic campaigns. The same right to protection that the musicians are demanding today—asking for a ban on music films, since they harm a minority of the profession (no more than 250 musicians are out of work due to music films)—should have been claimed by the cart drivers when the railroad left them with their carts grounded in the sheds.

Max Glücksmann, the most important film distributor in Argentina, left, and M. González, the promoter of music films, right. Many of the great tango musicians (Canaro, Gardel, Fresedo, Firpo, Lomuto, etc.) had recording contracts with Glücksmann in 1930.

A Producer of Argentinian Films Talks

Hopefully, we will be able to make Argentinian music films. To achieve this, it would suffice if those who shout against the foreign music film would concern themselves a little with the corresponding Argentinian industry by providing their cooperation and support. But when we want to engage a singer, a tango musician, an orquesta típica, or any Argentinian jazz band, they let us down by demanding salaries that Caruso did not earn at the Metropolitan in New York.

An Advocate of the Language Talks

The music film is one of the greatest catastrophes that has befallen our people. The music film will slowly but surely destroy our national identity and make our children forget their Spanish, to speak only English. Not being used to listen to anything but dialogs and songs in English at the cinema, the language of their elders will be forgotten.

A Theater Impresario Talks

We, the Argentinian theater impresarios, are delighted with the music film. This year [1930], in which the new cinematographic invention has invaded our theaters, is becoming the most successful one for the Argentinian theaters. In the first three months they have earned more than 180,000 pesos more than during the same period last year. I attribute this to the music film for various reasons: first, this show is expensive and the audience comes to the theater for that; second, the neighborhood cinemas that used to draw the audience from us have raised their prices and are cheating the spectators with “music films based on phonographs”; and, third, the public—being used to silent movies—has lost its taste for the talking ones.

A Spectator Talks

When the film is good, the music cinema is a beauty. This is proven by the crowds at the theaters which show authentic music films; there are no more than 40 in all of Buenos Aires. The audience fills the theaters with interesting films and does not attend the others.

Adolfo Carabelli, leaning against his Victrola, says philosophically: "If one doors closes, a hundred others open..."

A Composer of Music Talks

There is another aspect to the problem of the music film, and that is the invasion of the North-American record, which has taken more than 80% of sales from the national music record. Why? Because, the music themes being popularized by such and such a music film, the sale of the corresponding record is enormous. On the other hand, since now the audience does not listen to Argentinian music, the sale of the native record diminishes every day, and we go to ruin.

Finding Open Doors

It took until 1933 that a full-fledged music film industry developed in Argentina—then, of course, featuring tango and its greatest stars such as Carlos Gardel, Libertad Lamarque, and many others. In the meantime, musicians took advantage of the popularity of the music film were they could. No one was perhaps more enterprising in finding outlets for his music and his orchestra than Francisco Canaro.

Canaro and his orchestra at a recording session

As the music music films gained popularity, Canaro quickly recorded the most popular pieces—tango or not—on record with his own orchestra.

Excerpt from a Odeon-Disco Nacional (Max Glücksmann) advertisement of 1930

Five years later, 1935, Canaro had moved his music to theater stage, giving musical comedies with tango music, and had bought a film studio to produce his own music films.

© 2017 Wolfgang Freis

Julio De Caro's Fateful Debut as a Tango Musician

Julio De Caro, son of José De Caro and Mariana Ricciardi Villardi, was born in San Telmo, Buenos Aires, in 1899. His parents were immigrants of illustrious Italian families. José De Caro had been a professor of music in Milan and opened a music school and store in Buenos Aires. He and his wife had 13 children, 10 of which survived infancy. Julio De Caro was the second child born after Francisco, who also became a highly respected tango composer, pianist, and long-time collaborator of his brother Julio.

The De Caro children were raised with strict discipline. From early childhood on, they had to work eight hours a day, which included their day at school and homework assignments, practicing their musical instruments and helping out in the store. The highest expectations were put on Julio. Although he showed great musical talent as a child, his father decided that he should become a doctor.

The music valued at the De Caro household was that of the European classical tradition. Tango was not appreciated, although it did good business in the store. Many famous tango musicians of the day were regular customers, but contact with the music was limited to commercial interchange and did not pass beyond the sales counter—or that was the intention of José De Caro. Julio took a liking to the popular music already as a child. He would “borrow” tango scores from the store, play them with a mute in his study, and return them inconspicuously after he had memorized them.

Julio turned out to be an exceptional violinist whose talent was recognized outside of the family early on. The occasion on which his gift came to the attention of prominent tango musicians was a whimsical scheme contrived by his friends. It involved getting the under-age Julio into a pair of long pants and into a popular ice-skating rink, where the most prominent tango musician at the time, Roberto Firpo, was performing with his orchestra.

[A number of aspiring adolescent tango musicians had to deal with the “trousers issue”. Traditionally, boys wore short pants until their eighteenth birthday. 18 was also the minimum age for admission into some of the entertainment venues were tango orchestras performed. Lucio Demare, for example, who received a job offer at a cabaret at age 17, had to plead insistently with his mother to let him wear long pants so that he would not give away his true age.]

Julio De Caro

From: Julio De Caro, El Tango en Mis Recuerdos (1956)

Some time later [1917]—17 years old, although it did not show, and during the disagreeable period in which the short ones [trousers] were asking for change—some friends, led by Ferrari and his cousin, both older than the others, invited me one Saturday evening to the Palais de Glace, thus taking advantage of the only day of the week when I was allowed to stay out until midnight. My total ignorance in matters of nightly amusement and shyness gave sufficient strength to refuse, imagining my dad furious, should he learn that I frequented places unsuitable to minors.

(I have to mention that my continuous studies—prevailing by far over my not submissive, but compliant nature and the boldness of the companions—did not leave time for mischievous fantasies. Moreover, the idea of the unknown did not attract me in any way.)

Since I did not want to diminish my masculinity and leave my friends with a bad impression, I pointed at my [short] pants as a good excuse, asserting: “With these they will not let me enter!” Little did I not know that the “smart guys” had it all planned out to perfection: pulling out a pair of “long ones”, and before I even realized it, the transformation turned out to be faster than Cinderella's.

In order to bolster their deed and to appease my plentiful doubts, they informed me that the purpose of taking me to the Palais de Glace was to let me listen to Roberto Firpo, at the time the “great of the greats”. (Today: national treasure of tango.) This temptation was the coup de grâce, making me instantaneously forget parents, fatherland, and home. I would not miss the show for anything in the world!

Palais de Glace, Buenos Aires

As we entered, I felt observed by thousands of eyes, in those long, borrowed wrappers, rolled up various times at the waist, encumbering the step and clamorously announcing the initiation of the juvenile. Dying of embarrassment, I managed to place myself with the others at a table reserved by Ferrari. He, smart from having sinned already and being an habitué, had very shrewdly chosen the table right next to the orchestra gallery. Everyone ordered drinks for adults when the waiter came. As it was my turn, I could only say: “Granita”, which was acknowledged with a condescending smile.

At the end of one musical number, I saw “Gallito”, a member of our group, get up and approach Firpo. After saying a few words into his ear, he returned very complacent to the table. A few minutes later the secret was a secret no longer, having turned into a racket of voices. Spreading like a wildfire, the audience shouted: “Let's hear the kid! Let's the kid!” Thinking that they were demanding the tango “The kid” [El pibe] by Vicente Greco, I joined in as well. But it lasted only briefly ... finding myself deposited in the orchestra gallery and Firpo asking me what I wanted to play on the violin.

Barely being able to speak, I responded: “La cumparsita”, one of the great successes of don Roberto. Since I knew it by heart I asked, now in a stronger voice, that the orchestra play the first part of the piece softly every time it was repeated, thus giving me opportunity to add two counter melodies that I executed with cadences, double stops and harmonics the first time, the second time on the fourth [lowest] string “al cello”.

Roberto Firpo

When I finished, the applause was deafening. Given the advanced state of my almost completed training and the fact that my performance had been just “a piece of cake”, this demonstration seemed excessive to me. Besides, I thought it was unjust to pass over the attendant important figures—which were the violinists Tito Roccatagliata and [Agesilao] Ferrazzano, who truly deserved the honor.

After a hug from Firpo (he still remembers it!) I returned to my friends. But the story did not end here. To top it all off, a “lady of the night” (demimondaine), encircling me like a python and devouring me with a mile-long kiss, got me so tangled up that she began to squeeze all breath out of me. I believe that if a gentleman had not arrived to separate us, I would not be here to tell the story.

When I thanked the gentleman for his help, he asked for my name. He added that he had listened very carefully to my performance and would like me to play in his orchestra. Declining the offer, I answered: “Impossible, Sir. Apart from my father never allowing it, I must finish my classic studies and get my high-school diploma this year at the 'Mariano Moreno' school. After that: medical school. For me, tango is only an entertainment. This stunt here tonight was just an escapade arranged by my friends.” “Well, since you have told me to call you Julio De Caro, I want you to know my name as well: Eduardo Arolas.”

Eduardo Arolas! From that moment on, my only wish was go home, as much as my shaky legs allowed it, and forget about my “triumph”, as everyone called it. I could not close an eye that night while I tried to find an exit from the labyrinth in which I had put myself.

The best thing was to confide in Mom, the perpetual custodian of our troubles. The following day I told her everything about my latest odyssey. Fearing the collapse of many illusions, the poor woman entreated me to forget all about the conversation and proposition of that Mr. Arolas. Quoting the byname he had been given—the “Tiger of the Bandoneon”—in order to glamorize him made it worse. Here Troy burst into flames. She went off like a lioness whose cub was being taken: “Are you out of your mind? Do you really think I would let you throw away everything we have planned for you with so much concern and affection for the first stranger that you come across? Don't even think of defying us, because you will find myself firmly on the side of your father!”

My parents did not know that I, pretending to have other obligations, sometimes left the house to listen to Canaro, who performed in a café (2400 San Juan) just a few blocks from our place. From the sidewalk I would watch him, partly, as much as I could. I remember him once playing La barra fuerte, the title of which was written with chalk on a blackboard, then to be erased for the next one. Another time the objective was Cobián or Bardi—I do not remember exactly who, but where: the corner of Independencia and Sarandí. Not being a “rebel” at the time, I never ventured to enter these places, as much as I felt attracted by the music. But the audaciousness of greenness … has its idiosyncrasies. Otherwise, David would not have confronted Goliath, much less likely I my father. Today, being older, I would think twice about it...

Clamorous applause, a hug from Roberto Firpo, and a job offer from Eduardo Arolas: indeed an overwhelming experience for a seventeen-year-old making his debut as tango musician. But the episode continued and took an unexpected turn: Eduardo Arolas appeared at his father's. Not mentioning the events at the Palais de Glace, Arolas told José De Caro that he needed a violinist to play with his group in a café. He had heard that Julio was an excellent violinist and asked De Caro to give his son leave a few afternoons a week to play with him. Arolas, then a well-known twenty-five-year-old tango musician, a smart dresser with the appearance of a high-life dandy (a description by Francisco Canaro) did not make the impression he had hoped for: José De Caro declined, of course. His son would not become a tango musician but a doctor, and a good one, too!

Eduardo Arolas

Julio, however, did not give in that easily. He later went to see Arolas and said that he wanted to play with him on his own responsibility. Arolas agreed and Julio secretly started performing with the orchestra. The frequent absences at home, however, did not pass unnoticed. One evening, José De Caro confronted his son at the door as he returned home and asked him where he had been with his violin and what he had been doing. Julio admitted he was working with Arolas and expressed his wish to become a musician, explaining that he had looked into the work at hospital and found that he had, literally, not the stomach for it. But José De Caro would have nothing of it and, as Julio kept insisting on his plans, he showed him the door without further ado.

Julio found refuge at his grandparents'. Pleading by family members could not sway José De Caro, neither would Julio return home “with the tail between his legs”. Father and son did not talk or see each other for 20 years. The grand parents soon moved away from Buenos Aires for professional reasons. At age 18, Julio De Caro lived on his own, working as tango musician, and performing every night at two establishments from 6 p.m. until 4 a.m. in the morning.




©2017 Wolfgang Freis