BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA – Bárbara Calderón, 24, works up a sweat jumping in the air, swinging her hips and lifting her arms in Buenos Aires, Argentina’s capital. The rhythm of the drum and cymbals guides her dancing as her “murga,” or street band, rehearses for Carnaval, which kicks off tomorrow.
“For me, Carnaval is the passion of my life,” says Calderón, still breathing heavily. “It is what I am going to do until I can’t anymore. While I have the strength to continue doing it, I am going to do it.”
Calderón is a member of a street band called Los Atorrantes de Almagro, which translates to “The Losers of Almagro,” a middle-class neighborhood in Buenos Aires. The group’s 80 members – dancers, singers, musicians, mascots and flag-bearers – convened every weekend in Plaza Almagro for the past year to practice their routine for Carnaval.
Part of Buenos Aires’ official cultural patrimony, murgas and their satirical performances are an artistic expression of the sentiments of the people and the identities of their neighborhoods. They practice every weekend of the year to prepare for Carnaval, which kicks off tomorrow. More than just a street band, the murgas link generations of community members as family and friends collaborate to generate joy for themselves and others.
While murgas have flourished around the country, the pioneer ones arose in Buenos Aires, according to the city government’s website. The first celebration of Carnaval in Buenos Aires took place in 1869.
In 1997, the city legislature declared the street bands as part of the autonomous city’s official cultural patrimony, says Pablo Romano, Calderón’s husband and the director of Los Atorrantes de Almagro. There are 120 murgas in the city, and their members, or “murguistas,” comprise men, women and children.
Carnaval in Buenos Aires has undergone a revitalization in recent years, emerging as a powerful form of social art, according to the city government. Murgas embody organization, artistic development, social commitment and popular celebration.
This year, Carnaval lasts from Feb. 2 until Feb. 12. In Argentina, the final two days are national holidays.
During Carnaval, the murgas perform on stages erected in various parts of the city as well as parade through the streets. The government closes the streets around the stages, interrupting vehicular traffic so that the public can enjoy the performances.
While the bands perform, children in the crowd spray foam. Streamers and confetti fill the streets, as a festive atmosphere envelops the city.
But the murgas’ performances do more than entertain. They also represent their neighborhoods’ identities as well as satirize current issues or public figures.
Romano says that murgas’ performances follow a specific outline. A presenter from the group first recites a verse introducing the band, then the band introduces itself with a song. After, the group performs a critique – a satirical song about a public figure or incident. The presenter then recites a farewell verse, followed by a goodbye song by the group.
Romano, who founded Los Atorrantes de Almagro in 2000, says that the street bands prepare for Carnaval throughout the entire year. During the months leading up to the occasion, they increase their practices to more than once week as well as craft their costumes.
The costumes are colorful and made of shiny satin. Covered in sequins and beads hand-sewn by the murguistas, the outfits require hours and hours of work.
“All year, we are preparing ourselves for February,” Calderón says. “And after are some 10 days in total of performances.”
Romano says that during Carnaval, each band performs on three stages each day.
The bands each receive funding from the city government as well as raise money through raffles, parties and other neighborhood events in order to pay for their costumes and transportation, Romano says. Los Atorrantes de Almagro received 30,000 Argentine pesos ($6,000) from the government to finance its performances this year.
None of the murguistas earns money for performing in the street band. Rather, they perform for the sheer enjoyment of it, says Emiliano Vispo, 22, after setting aside his drum, which bears the inscription “Los Atorrantes de Almagro.”
“In the band, we are friends,” he says. “The band is that: to come to make art with your friends, to laugh yourself to death. If it weren’t like that, something different would turn out, with less artistic content.”
Paying no mind to the stifling heat, Vispo concentrates on defining what the band means in his life.
“To play in the band is a state of consciousness,” he says. “It is a moment in which you don’t think, that you get out what you have inside. When I play the drum in the band, I feel that I am making art from my neighborhood and that I extract from inside the blood of the celebration.”
For Calderón, talking about the band is telling her story, because her mother and five siblings have danced with her in street bands since she was young. Her husband and father-in-law have also been murguistas since they were kids. And her 3-year-old son, Bruno, has played the drums since he was 5 months old.
“I would love it if my son also followed in our footsteps,” she says. “He is from a street band family.”
Bruno is the grandson of one of the historic figures of the Buenos Aires murgas, Domingo Romano, better known as Mingo Romano. The 72-year-old has been a part of the city’s murga culture since he was 8. He has written some 1,000 critique songs.
Mingo Romano is not a typical grandfather. Tattoos cover his muscular arms, and he wears a hoop in his ear. He had four wives, seven children and eight grandchildren. Four of his children, including Pablo Romano, are murguistas.
With a raspy voice, he says that he began to dance in a street band at age 8, when he felt as if his body were just listening to the drums. With this first band, he roamed the subway performing for tips, an old practice that street bands have since abandoned.
While working for a butcher’s shop and later as a security guard for a trade union, he performed in more than 40 street bands. He went from being a drummer to a director.
Since 1958, he has been the critique singer, composing the songs that he sings. Today, he performs this role for a murga named Los Fantoches de Villa Urquiza, another middle-class neighborhood in the city.
He says that when he was married, he used to test his songs on his wife. Now, he uses the reaction of the public to gauge whether he achieves his objective – to entertain the people.
“My wife was the taster,” he says. “If she laughed at my song, that song was going to be a success. Now, if by the third verse I don’t manage to see a sign of happiness among the people, in the fourth verse, I cut it off.”
He displays the photos hanging on his apartment walls, which show the scenes of his life as a murguista, his children during their performances and other loved ones from the various bands he has performed in. Next to him, his youngest daughter, who is 14, helps him to embroider the costumes for tomorrow’s festival.
“The street band is my wife, my girlfriend,” he says, “the place where I pour out everything that I know about her.”
He says that he even wants to be wearing a murga costume at his funeral.
“It is my last wish,” he says, “and almost all of my children and all those who accompany me in the band already know: When the day comes for the departure of the final journey, I don’t want them to see me inside of a container, as if I were a product. I want them to see me lying in bed with the clothes of the murga.”
