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
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 this country.
Sadly, it is very common not just in Latin America, but around the world. I remember listening and hearing stories at the British Refugee Council of adults and youths thousands of miles from their loved ones, separated through conflict, many of whom had no idea if they were alive or not. Some had seen their families and friends killed by d groups or governments and lived with such profound pain that I wouldn’t begin to understand, while trying to settle into the Birmingham way of life, which isn’t easy even for brummies.
Yes, this version of this beautiful song evokes very strong emotions for me.
However, I have built a wonderful connection with someone who played a role in the creation of the version of the song and features in the video. In fact, his drums loop throughout the song and he is the first musician to appear in the song. I almost feel a giant wave of an adopted patriotic joy to see him and Tegucigalpa feature in the background. His artistic name is Tambor Negro, otherwise known as Jorge Garcia, a musician who plays a fusion of Garifuna music and jazz, and I feel blessed to have struck up a friendship with him. I have bumped into him a couple of times during my time in Honduras as we run in similar social circles, but what made it strange to see him recently was that we met at the Wednesday jazz night (see previous blog post: Discovering Jazz in Tegucigalpa) a day or so after I found this version of the song on YouTube. The Gods at play? Who knows, but I guess some friendships were meant to be, and it makes this song so much special to me.
Gracias, Natalia.
Gracias, Tambor Negro.