Osvaldo Fresedo grew up from the age of 10 in the lovely, sleepy barrio of La Paternal, the barrio I called my home for a while in Buenos Aires. I thought of him often when I walked through that neighborhood, wondering what sort of inspiration he took from his surroundings. According to todotango, it was there that he started to play the bandoneon.
His nickname was El Pibe de La Paternal, the kid from La Paternal. A couple of my friends would affectionately tease me and call me La Piba de La Paternal. Because of my experience in this beautiful, sweet, special neighborhood, the thought of which conjures images of jacaranda trees and one-story houses with ornate detailing on their facades, I feel a connection to Fresedo.
I love to listen to tango music at home. Just sit, and really focus on every detail, the words, the rhythm, each instrument. I love to let the music carry me to Buenos Aires and beyond while I sit with a glass of wine or a cup of coffee. But I cannot listen to Fresedo when I’m sitting at home.
If I listen to Fresedo with that much focus, I get the most massive waves of nostalgia for Buenos Aires and I start crying. Anything from quiet weeping to desperate sobbing. No other orchestra can transport me back “home” to Buenos Aires like that. The music, so melodic and sweet and sentimental, tickles my heart and then breaks it open, reminding me that I’m not there. And I cry. If I’m paying attention to the lyrics, I’m a basketcase.
*Dancing* to Fresedo, however, is wonderful. If I’m dancing, I can handle the music. I have an outlet for expression. I can channel all my emotions into the embrace. I can walk away from the tanda a very happy tanguera.
Last night I was dancing with a very close porteño friend during a tanda of Fresedo. He’s someone who has been very much a part of my Buenos Aires life, and is an ideal partner for a tanda of Fresedo. All that sentimentality and nostalgia, shared with someone who was there. Not to mention he’s a really good dancer. During the fourth tango, Sueño Azul, I allowed my eyes to close and all of a sudden, in his embrace, surrounded by the music, I was transported. Literally. I was no longer in Seattle at China Harbor…
…It was the month of March and I was walking on Scalabrini Ortiz at 4:00 in the morning, to a bus stop, after saying goodbye to a friend in La Viruta (a milonga I NEVER went to but once in a while). The air smelled sweet because it had rained most of the night. I had Buenos Aires almost all to myself. As the bus (the 110) made its way through the various streets, I admired the trees so typical of Buenos Aires neighborhoods, lining the streets with their twisted roots and branches. At the time, my life as I knew it was in the process of falling apart (so I could later put it back together again), but I was in my city, peaceful, tired, okay…albeit a little sad. Buenos Aires was always so sweet to me at night.
I opened my eyes towards the end of the tango, back to the reality of the opening milonga of the Seattle Tango Magic festival, and sighed with contentment. I really did have some Tango Magic.
