Vox Publica

Uruguayan singer and songwriter Jorge Drexler won the Oscar for the best song, "Al otro lado del río", On the other side of the sea, from the Motorcycles Diaries (which I still haven't seen). Apparently Drexler was not allowed to sing the song at the Oscars, which made him not too happy. Instead, Carlos Santana and Antonio Banderas performed the song onstage (he should be thanksful that it wasn't Beyonce, who sang pretty much everything else). According to Drexler, he got the support of Banderas who contacted him - though he didn't hear anything from Santana. Drexler's "revenge" came when he accepted the Oscar: he sang the first stanza from his song.

Here are the lyrics in my free translation.

I nail my oar in the water
I carry your oarn in mine
I think I've seen a light on the other side of the river.

Little by little the day will conquer the cold
I think I've seen al ight on the other side of the river

Above everything I think that not everything is lost
So many tears, so many tears and I am an empty vessel

I hear a voice that calls me almost as a sigh
Row, row, rowwww. Row, row, rowww.

In this side of the world that which isn't a dam is empty
I think I've seen a light on the other side of the river

Very serious I row, smiling deep inside
I think I've seen a light on the other side of the river

Above everything I think that not everything is lost
So many tears, so many tears and I am an empty vessel

I hear a voice that calls me almost as a sigh
Row, row, rowwww. Row, row, rowww.

I nail my oar in the water
I carry your oarn in mine
I think I've seen a light on the other side of the river.

Update - Sorry, the code I had here has been used. When/if I get more, I'll post them.

Once in a while we get codes for free song downloads from bottle caps. We don't use them, so I figured I'd write the codes here for anyone who wants to download the song to do so. Newer codes will go on top. This game ends on 4/11 - I don't know if that's the deadline to download the songs. If you do use a code, please let me know so I can delete it from here.

Go to www.itunes.com

CODES

Mothers day is coming soon. This song, written by Isamel Serrano for the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo, came up in my song list as I was rocking my baby to sleep. It brought tears to my eyes and reminded me why I chose the path I have. I've posted this song before on my blog, but my old blog is now "private", so I'm posting it again. My translation.

He looks for you, mother, while his body is rocked
by the sea in which he sinks asleep.
He dreams with your embrace, searches for memories
to which to hold on so he won't fall asleep.

The sea roars, it's a tempest, a cry.
Who could have sent a thousand angels to heaven?
And he hears your screams, white scarves
cover its waters, the wind brought them.
Send a wave to take away
the traitors who planted so much death.

Boats and castaways hear their voices.
They say "Never, never, forget our names".
Tell the mothers that someplace,
where it's needed, we continue fighting.

Mother, your son hasn't disappared.
Mother, I found him walking with you.
I see him in your eyes, I hear him in your mouth,
and he calls me in everyone of your gestures.
I see him in my struggle and he is with me
among the flames of every new battle.

His strong hands guide mine,
towards a future, always towards victory.
His strong hands guide mine,
towards a future, always towards victory.

Once again Leon Gieco's song "Memoria" comes up as I work in Proyecto Desaparecidos. I translated the song and posted it to my old blog, which is now password-protected, so I'm reposting it now.

--

Old loves that are no longer here,
the hope of those who lost,
all the promises that go away,
and those who fell in any war

All is kept in memory
dream of life and history.

The deception and complicity
of the genocidaires which are free
the pardon and the punto final
to the beasts of that hell

All is kept in memory
dream of life and history.

Memory awakes to injure
the sleeping peoples
that don't let it live
free like the wind

The disappeared that we look for
with the color of their births,
hunger and abundance that come together
misstreatment with its bad memories.

All is nailed into memory,
thorn of life and history.

Two thousand would eat for a year
with what a military minute costs.
How many would stop being slaves
for the price of a bomb thrown to the sea.

All is kept in memory
dream of life and history.

Memory stabs until it bleeds
the peoples that tie it
and don't let it go
free like the wind.

All the dead of the AMIA
and those of the Israeli Embassy
the secret power of weapons
a justice system which looks and doesn't see.

It's all hidden in memory
refuge of life and history

It was when churches went silent
it was when soccer ate everything
that the Palotin fathers and Angelelli
left their blood in the mud.

It's all hidden in memory
refuge of life and history

Memory blows up until it defeats
the peoples that trample on it
and that don't let it be
free like the wind

The bullet to Chico Méndez in Brasil,
150,000 Guatemalans
the miners that face the rifles
student repression in Mexico

It's all charged into memory
weapon of life and history

America with destroyed souls
children killed by the squads
Mugica's torture for the slumbs
the dignity of Rodolfo Walsh.

América con almas destruidas,
los chicos que mata el escuadrón,
suplicio de Mugica por las villas,
dignidad de Rodolfo Walsh

It's all charged into memory
weapon of life and history

Memory aims until killing
the peoples that silence it
and don't let it fly
free like the wind

I continue working, and another song from my playlists appear. This one was written by argentine songwriter Victor Heredia for his sister for his sister, María Cristina Cournour, "Mara", who was one of the disappeared.

We already know where the dead things are,
with faces of murderers who return
to explain to us that they never did anything,
I don't know where to put so much sadness.
Today we try to forget so many lies,
I don't want to kiss you with such pain
that sense these injuries yet again
destilling their pain of old things.

Mara, Mara, Mara,
let me sit here
to think only of you
to see in your eyes stars
larger than the sun.
Finally life has the habit
of shaking its dice cup in such a way
that nobody can reach the top
without strictly suffering some norms.
Don't come to me with dark blessing
I only want a lukewarm kiss of life
without the memory of torture and dictators

---

Ya sabemos donde están las cosas muertas,
con rostros de asesinos que regresan
a explicarnos que jamás hicieron nada,
no sé bien dónde poner tanta tristeza.
Hoy tratemos de olvidar tanta mentira,
no quiero darte un beso con tal pena
que presienta otra vez estas heridas,
destilando su dolor de cosas viejas.

Mara, Mara, Mara,
déjame sentarme aquí
a pensar tan sólo en vos
a mirar en tus ojos estrellas
más grandes que el sol.
Al final la vida tiene esa costumbre
de mezclar su cubilete de tal forma,
que no hay quien pueda llegar hasta la cumbre
sin sufrir estrictamente algunas normas.
Hoy sé bien adonde están las cosas muertas,
no me vengan con oscuras bendiciones,
sólo quiero un tibio beso de la vida
sin recuerdo de torturas y dictadores.

Tango has an amazing quality of making you nostalgic for things you never experienced themselves. Many tangos were written from the 1930's to 50's, its golden age, and thus reflect on a society that we never experienced. Indeed, many tangos are about people looking back in their youth, to an even older Argentina that now lives only in books, old movies and tango lyrics.

Cafetín de Buenos Aires was written by Discepolo - one of the masters of Tango - in 1949. It reflects the type of male-only cafes that had almost become extinct by the time I grew up. Probably because of that - because by then men and women had a much more equal society and men no longer had the time to hang out in cafes while their wives took care of everything - I find it so beautiful and it's indeed one of my five or so favorite tangos.

I'm dedicating this free translation to Tim, the owner of Zocalo Coffeehouse, who has managed to create, in San Leandro of all places, a 21st century version of what a cafetín used to be, a place where men went to meet with friends, bond and even grow up.

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