Hasta la Raíz by Natalia Lafourcade
Dear readers, It’s another song. A profound one. Hasta la Raíz. It was released almost 10 years ago by the majestic Natalia Lafourcade, a Mexican musician and songwriter. I have always known the song was there. The oh-uh-oh, uh-uh-oh, oh-oh bridge is a kind of harmonic earworm which I don’t mind swirls around my head for a good few hours. Then, in the last month or so, I was in a coffee shop named Varietal in Tegucigalpa that I frequent regularly to do remote work and just relax and scoff their cheesecakes with gastronomic lust. The baristas have a great music taste, and on this particular afternoon close before closing my laptop for the day, this song came along on the playlist. As stated, I’ve always known the song was there and it’s such a pleasant earworm, but I’d never paid much attention to the lyrics. Since then, they’ve haunted me, but in such a profound way. Hasta la Raíz I keep crossing rivers, walking jungles, loving the sunSigo cruzando ríos, andando selvas, amando el solEvery day I continue to get thorns from the depths of the heartCada día sigo sacando espinas de lo profundo del corazón At night I keep lighting dreams to clean with the sacred smoke, every memoryEn la noche sigo encendiendo sueños para limpiar con el humo sagrado, cada recuerdo When I write your name in the white sand, with a blue backgroundCuando escriba tu nombre en la arena blanca, con fondo azulWhen I look at the sky in the cruel way from a gray cloud, you appearCuando mire el cielo en la forma cruel de una nube gris, aparezcas túOne afternoon I climbed a high hill look at the past, you will know that I have not forgotten youUna tarde suba una alta loma mire el pasado, sabrás que no te he olvidado Chorus I carry you insideTe llevo dentroto the rootHasta la raízAnd, no matter how much I growY, por más que crezcaYou’re going to be hereVas a estar aquí Although I hide behind the mountain and find a field full of caneAunque yo me oculte tras la montaña y encuentre un campo lleno de cañaThere will be no way, my moonbeam, for you to leaveNo habrá manera, mi rayo de luna, que tú te vayas Bridge Oh-uh-oh-oh, oh-ohOh-uh-oh-oh, oh-ohOh-uh-oh-oh, oh-ohOh-uh-oh-oh, oh-oh I think that every moment survived while walking Pienso que cada instante sobrevivido al caminarAnd every second of uncertainty every moment of not knowingY cada segundo de incertidumbre cada momento de no saberThey are the exact key to this fabric what I am carrying under my skinSon la clave exacta de este tejido que ando cargando bajo la pielThis is how I protect you, here you are still inside, Así te protejo, aquí sigues dentro, Chorus Chorus repeated Bridge Chorus Like all forms of art, you can resonate with the words in different ways. For me, it makes me think of those who I love and cherish, but for one reason or another, aren’t physically close, but remain part of me, spiritually or metaphysically. An unbreakable bond, so to speak. It captures themes of love, heartbreak and resilience, reflecting a deep connection to her roots and identity. Lafourcade described the song as a journey through her emotions and experiences, which I certainly identify with, especially the heartbreak and resilience, as do many who enjoy the song, which I believe is key to the song’s huge popularity. It is a certainty in life that we will suffer loss at some point, yet the song gives a sense of comfort and healing to move on. It’s rare a song can have such a deep impact on me, both lyrically and through its soft folkloric melody, but it also has a wonderful feminine touch. Thoughts of my dad, family and friends across the world, former loves, partners or colleagues or children and youths I’ve worked with, wondering what they are doing with themselves when I hear the song. I then came across a version on YouTube, created by a number of artists throughout Latin America through a multimedia musical project called Playing for Change, a project to inspire, connect, and bring peace to the world through music. Usually, I’m a bit skeptical of projects like this for some reason, but this version blows me away, especially reading it is a tribute on International Day of the Disappeared (which falls on 30th August) to those who are missing or suffering the loss of someone who has disappeared, whether it be armed conflict, climatic reasons or missing en-route to the US. At the beginning of the video are some accounts of people who have loved ones missing. It hits me deeply. It reminds me of the dozens of people I have met in Honduras both through my line of work but also in everyday life, who have lost someone, but are also missing from loved ones themselves. I remember speaking to a neighbour when I lived in Miraflores in Tegucigalpa, who told me how her brother and nephew went missing one night. They were en-route to San Pedro Sula in the north of the country, but they never made it, and she never found out why. There was no sign of the car or their bodies. No one knew or understood, and it happened two years before she told me, back around 2017. She feared the worst, but she hadn’t given up hope of seeing them again. It also reminds me of speaking to youths when I worked at Casa Alianza, who were forced to leave their families for one reason or another, whose parents had gone to live in the US and they had no idea where they were, or themselves had tried to go to the US, been deported and were too ashamed to return home because their parents had spent their life-savings trying to go there. It struck me deeply. I’ve never forgotten those stories, which make me feel so tied and connected to
Discovering Jazz in Tegucigalpa: My Midweek Escape
Dear readers, The past couple of Wednesdays, I have gone to a jazz night in Tegucigalpa at a place called Hibriduz, a place found on the recommendation from a drunk musician a few weeks ago. I must admit, jazz isn’t my go-to genre, nor am I an expert. It’s nice to listen to and unwind, do art or writing, and submerge in an ambience of improvised melodies, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you the difference between Duke Ellington and Miles Davis. My Uncle Patrick West, a jazz musician based in Glasgow, will be reading this shaking his head with extreme disappointment at his nephew’s ignorance of jazz. He believes that jazz music caused the Big Bang and created the universe, and God resides in his sax i.e. heaven. Yes, a true jazz spiritualist, Pat is. Hopefully, I redeem myself by continuing with this post. I go to jazz night to relax. Work can be tough so it is nice to have a glass of red and let the jazz musicians do their thang while my mind unwinds from its chaos. It feels wonderful, especially in the humidity of the rainy season in the tropics. Hondurans from the north of the country are probably frowning at these very words. “What humidity, chele? Come to Jan Pedro Jula! We’ll jhow you humidity.” [The swapping of the j for the s is a Honduran inside joke. Just speak to a Jampedrana/o: a person who originates from San Pedro Sula. You’ll find out why]. Jokes aside, it’s a nice midweek thing to do, and then get to meet the musicians afterwards. They are actually from a jazz school. The trombonist is the profe: the teacher, as you might have guessed, a Nicaraguan. Then there is a guitarist, who seems to be the spokesperson the group, sometimes, joined by a pianist and saxophonist. But what impresses me most is the bassist and the drummer, who I was informed they are 17 and 16 years old, respectively. They’re quite something. Not only am I in awe of their talent, but also their discipline and skill to improvise. They’re beyond their years in terms of maturity and seem blessed with quiet confidence and ease to perform with such jazz-like coolness. Yet they left me envious and a little regretful that I never really kept up with the piano from my youth (I can still play Ode to Joy, but there are only so many times I can repeatedly play it to impress the ladies), and I often too lazy and ill-disciplined to pick up the acoustic guitar, which sits half a metre away from my bed where I write these very words. I’d love to pick it up and strum like Noel Gallagher, but like I say: laziness. It sits there, staring at me, filling me with guilt. Bastard. Back to jazz band: I have enjoyed the evenings I have attended, but I have also enjoyed taking black and white photos while the band plays. Not to give myself a giant pat on the back, but I’m pleased with how they’ve turned out. While doing so, I felt inspired to write a poem, something I’ve not done in years. Just caught in the moment, I suppose, when the band performed a jazz version of the famous Mexican bolero, Bésame Mucho – Kiss Me A Lot. For those not in the know, it was written by Consuelo Velásquez in 1940 and first sung by Emilio Tuero a year later. It has since been performed by famous musicians around the world, including the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Luis Miguel, Andrea Bocelli, Nat King Cole, Julio Iglesias, Natalia Lafourcade and Diana Krall, but one of my favourite versions was by Mexican band, Zoé, who originate from Cuernavaca, Mexico, a city I know very well through my work with Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos, which was also founded in the city. It was beautiful to hear this jazz version; especially as the melancholic melody reverberated into the humid night sky. Enjoy. Wednesday Night Cup of wine In my hand. A drop rain Moistens the stand. The band stroll out: No intro needed. Calm urgency, Shirts loosely fitted. A diaphragm expands, A serge follows through, Fingers pulse shiny buttons, The brass on cue. A mellow horn Penetrates the ambience, For the lust of seductive melodies, I pledge my affiance. Guitars and drums, Do your thing, The synergy starts, Night rises to sing. Wrapped in melancholy, Bonded with skill, Bless the souls, Their concoction swills. “Bésame mucho”: The lyrics silent, Yet the longing remains; Feelings still vibrant. I sit back, Tilt to the sky, I breathe in the sounds, And utter “oh my, oh my.”
Doodle Playlist: Songs that Inspired Drawings
Dear readers, I love music, I love doodling, and as you may have seen from previous blog posts, I enjoy entwining the two, writing about songs that trigger and inspire me to draw my reflections out on my paper. Songs have given memories, sometimes there is a lyric that resonates that makes me think of something or someone. Sometimes they give me the blues, sometimes they make me feel fan-f—–g-tastic. [Note to readers: I’ve been warned about expletives and profanities by the moderators aka my mum. Please note the curse culling]. Call it fan art. Call it what you will. It is cathartic and therapeutic. You can read more on my joys of doodling in my previous blogpost, Why Do I Doodle? This post is more a playlist of songs and doodles, songs that have grabbed my imagination in one way or the other. You can find the compilation on Spotify at this link: Doodle Playlist. No more explanations. No more reflecting. Enjoy the gallery. Enjoy the Instagram reel. Enjoy the playlist. Love moi
Cloudbusting by Kate Bush
Dear readers, It hasn’t always been on my playlist. It has been a bit “out of ear, out of mind” over the years. It is now, though. According to Spotify, it was my third or fourth most listened to song in 2023. My mother would dance around the kitchen to it while preparing the Sunday roast, and I would sit at the kitchen table for mum to keep an eye on me, ensuring that I would, maybe, attempt to do my homework. I would hover around taking in the aromas of roast lamb, pork, beef or chicken with potatoes and veggies in the oven, but also in the hope mum would do my maths and business studies homework, because I didn’t have the spark or motivation for that nonsense, but I did for football, budgerigars, computer games and Oasis. Yes; regrettably, I was a lazy oik at school. English and PE were the subjects what I rolled out of bed for. Maths I hated, and it is still a weakness today. I miss crucial cognitive numerical problem-solving tools, mathematically dyslexic so to speak, meaning my calculator or Chat GPT to do the brain work, as it does for billions more humanoids these days. Robots are taking over. You’ve been warned. If my memory serves correct, the first time I heard the song was on a wintery afternoon. It was greyish and cold outside, and there was something on BBC Radio 4 with Kate Bush talking of her inspiration behind the song. I don’t remember if it was a Desert Island Discs episode, which I think usually aired on Sunday, but I remember mum being captivated by it and I was curious why. I can’t recall my age, but I guess I was still in junior school; anywhere between 7 and 11. But it was that afternoon I heard the song for the first time, and the looping orchestral rhythm of the “dum da da dum, da da dum, da da da da da dum…” which became a lifelong ear-worm that will happily echo in my mind until my death. The song comes and goes from my life, but it seems to return when I pass through a major life event. It certainly did so when my father passed away. The song certainly eased with the grieving process, as highlighted in one of my previous blog posts, A Game of Grief. There is something very harmonic about the song. It is rich and varied, using lush chord voicings and harmonic progressions that create depth and complexity. There are extended chords, which I researched are in major 7ths and suspended chords, adding colour and texture to the song’s palette. Bush uses strings and synthesisers and percussions, along with her voice, to give the song a melodic texture, something atmospheric. All these ingredients give Cloudbusting a strong emotional impact; it’s haunting. It is also storytelling, which I will come to shortly. The chorus and dramatic build-up convey a yearning, a connection, a transcendence, between the listener and the narrator. Kate Bush reminds me of David Bowie, a real musical artist, mixing elements of pop, rock and avant- garde genres, with inventive lyrics and innovative production techniques. She was 19-years-old when she burst onto the scene with Wuthering Heights in the late 1970s, and she has retained a certain esteem among the masses and the music industry. Cloudbusting was released in 1985, but it has a timeless quality. It’s relevant today and is an inspiration amongst contemporary artists, thanks to the unconventional and catchy rhythm. Only great artists can do that: produce music, novels or portraits that are relevant for many generations. Kate Bush’s music is just that: evergreen. One of her other songs, Running Up That Hill, returned to the public ears a couple of years ago thanks to the Netflix show, Stranger Things, becoming a hit with younger generations for similar reasons: its evergreen pull. When I first heard the song, I admit, it wasn’t the lyrics that caught my attention, which is odd as words and narratives often hook me more than the music itself. As stated, it was the looping tempo: a lifelong earworm that I often nod my head in rhythm to as it plays out in my mind while working or waiting in a supermarket queue. I guess I was too immature to grasp the lyrics at the time. They are based on Peter Reich’s memoir, A Book of Dreams, about his father Wilhelm Reich, evoking themes of imagination, longing and the power of human spirit. My sister bought me the book for Christmas in 2022, and I gobbled it up by New Year’s Eve. It is an emotive read with a kind of “us against the world” narrative that Bush cleverly discloses in her lyrics to her song. It also focuses on a cloudbusting machine invented by Wilhelm that produced cloud formations and rain to arid areas using orgone energy, something as new to me as it is to you. I enjoyed the book. As stated, I ate it up in a week. My mum and sister also gifted me with a print of the song which is currently in storage in Malvern as I sort my life out. I can’t go on without a bit more context of Wilhelm Reich, an Austrian psychiatrist and psychoanalyst known for his controversial theories and contributions to science. Initially associated with Sigmund Freud, Reich developed the concept of “orgone energy,” presenting it as a universal life force found in all living organisms. He founded orgonomy, a branch of psychotherapy focused on orgone energy’s role in emotional and physical well-being, and created orgone accumulators for therapeutic purposes. Despite initial prominence, Reich’s work faced widespread criticism for lacking empirical evidence, leading to legal troubles with the U.S. FDA, which ultimately resulted in his imprisonment and death in 1957, which his son focuses on in the memoir, as does Bush in her song. Back to the lyrics: it is storytelling. So colourful
18th of December: Ode to Shane MacGowan
Dear readers, So what does 18th of December mean to you? Yes, you. Is it your birthday, or that of a loved one or friend? Do you know someone that died that day? Is it a significant day in your relationship? Did you meet someone, marry someone, divorce someone, or dare I say it, murder someone? Maybe it’s the date of a Christmas nativity. Maybe you smashed it, maybe you buggered it and it gives you childhood trauma. Damn it. Tell me what it means to you, the 18th of December. It’s a random date in the 365 of them in a year to throw at you, I know. It’s 7 days before Santa Claus comes to make or break the festive season. Either that’s going through your mind, or God knows what else, but I doubt the date means that much. Com’on, you eejit. Where’re you going with this? Well, reader, yes, 18th December is very dear to me. It is actually the night that the Pogues used to come to Birmingham, for what I think was the best part of a decade, to perform their Christmas concerts. For the lack of a better term to adequately express my emotion, it moved me to my very core. I jigged in the mosh pit with the rest of the fraggles and psychopaths, glasses of beer and piss thrown in the air, while everyone sang along to Shane MacGowan’s growl. I’d arrive home with a strong whiff of the worse side of human life. I cared not, though, despite the looks and giggles from family members. I saw them in three different years: 2001, 2009 and 2010, always on the 18th. I can’t remember the name of the venues. I can’t remember how many months in advance I bought the tickets. But I remember counting down the days to the night of the concert, like foreplay before the climax, and the thrill was always worth it, especially to hear the Fairytale of New York at the end. The Pogues – which means the kisses in gaelic – shortened from Poguemahone, which means kiss my arse. They were punk and folk and they were explosive on stage, just as much as their melodies and lyrics. They formed in the 80s and went on into the 90s, but without their frontman and main songwriter, Shane MacGowan, after he was fired for drug and drink dependency. Yet the band regrouped in the 2000s to do the aforementioned Christmas concerts. I can’t remember the whole story of how the band formed, but they were a wonderful mix of talented of Irish and English musicians. They wrote of Ireland and London and love and politics with such furious devotion…it wet-fish slapped me into understanding the power of music and literature at such a young age, and brought so much inspiration into my own attempts in the creative arts. I doubt I will ever see them live again. It definitely won’t be with Shane MacGowan. He passed away on 30th November of this year. The Gods insisted he be born on Christmas Day of 1957, and creative Gods helped him co-write probably the most iconic Christmas song in the English language, the song I mentioned in the previous paragraphs, the Fairytale of New York. Ironically, the song became something of a poison chalice in the eyes of Shane. He apparently came to loathe it, and you can understand why when everyone is singing it every Christmas. For the millions, it became their favourite Christmas song. Without doubt, it became mine. The broadway melody mixed with melancholic lyrics, focusing on lost dreams, lost hope, and a toxic relationship. Saying that, it’s not my favourite Pogues song, although it was the first I heard of theirs when my mum and dad used to play it at Christmas when I was young. I really got into Pogues in my teenage years and early 20s and they became a constant in my life, wired into my brain and became part of who I am, as idolism has the power of doing. It was the punk and hedonism that attracted me, the rebellion and storytelling, the lyrics that would suckerpunch my imagination and emotions and make me jump or jig or reflect. I put him up there with the best for his storytelling: James Joyce, Brendan Behan, and Roddy Doyle. But melodies…the damn melodies. I went through a period of trying to get my hands on every piece of merch available before the internet became a thing…the posters, tshirts, and every book ever written about him. I loved the man. I just didn’t get a chance to meet him. I feel more than blessed to have seen him live though. The day he died wasn’t much of a shock, sadly. I don’t want to repeat what millions have said about him “living close to edge that it is a surprise he made it to 65”. His hedonistic ways could be seen in his disheveled hair and disjointed teeth. However, I’d been following him on social media in the previous months of his final day, and I had witnessed he was in acutely bad health. Pneumonia beat him in the final round. Now he’s up there dancing and singing with Kirsty McColl. He was more than his hedonistic lifestyle. He was a romantic, a rebel, a poet, as well as being spiritual, with a fierce sense of humour, quite shy and eloquent. He wrote about dabbling in drugs and prostitution in his early years in London, as well as having part of his ear bitten off at a concert. The absurdities and madness followed him. I can only take what I know of him through documentaries and literature. There was more to him than his rep. He wanted to make Irish music popular, and he certainly did that. The Thatcher government knew of his popularity and saw it as a threat, banning a couple of his songs. He threw everything at