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Those
were times of great loneliness, great anguish, a strong feeling
of defeat, when life was all uphill, you’d lost friends, you’d
lost work, you’d lost the University, you’d lost your
parents -- very hard times, very, very hard -- and you would come
to a place like Nano Acevedo’s Peña Javiera,
the only authentic peña that existed early in the
dictatorship, where the spirit booster’s life was as hard as
yours. If you were a musician, you could go there with your guitar
-- or if you didn’t have a guitar but said, "I’d
like to sing," there was a guitar there that you picked up
and you sang. It was going to a place where there were others like
you, as bad off as you, and you didn’t feel alone, so you felt
better. Those experiences were valuable; they gave us strength,
a sense of power. Nano Acevedo was very courageous, he was very
courageous.
Nano
Acevedo, composer, musician:
Saturday was a bad night for restaurant owners. Fear
was widespread and besides, there was a curfew. Finally,
the owner said, "Alright, try it once, this coming
Saturday." That night the place was full and he
did a good business. He charged a small cover for us
and the rest (the food and drink sales) were his. Little
by little, by word of mouth, the place began to fill
up, we added Friday nights and could almost live on
what we earned there two nights a week. When the curfew
was 11 o’clock, we’d start at 8 and end at
10:30 or quarter to 11. There was a certain kind of
car, taxi, that was allowed to run a few minutes over
the curfew. As the curfew got later, we’d extend
the hours of the peña. Sometimes we’d
stay there till the next day. The police would come
now and then. They’d padlock the place and cart
everyone off to jail. The peña lasted
until 1980. I let it go, not because I had to, but because
I was tired of it and there was no longer any risk involved.
I’m addicted to risk. Some people are addicted
to marijuana, cocaine, tobacco, alcohol. I’m not
addicted to those things, but I love to do things that
are not so easy…
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You had that nourishment from the artists performing there who sang,
who played, from the person beside you, across from you, etc. And
you’d think about what the artist said, about the song, and
you’d sing it, you’d go out and get the cassette. Those
were the things that made you feel alive, that gave meaning to your
expression, to your way of being. It was your contact with the prior
generation, with whom you couldn’t have a conversation or discussion.
We would listen to those songs and would say, "Now what did
Patricio Manns mean by ‘life’s meanderers’?"
And we’d go round and round until we came to an interpretation
of a poetic phrase. Well, that’s how the Canto Nuevo
emerged.
I’d
say that what most identifies the Canto Nuevo is its language,
more than the music. Its language is sibylline, clandestine, with
a subliminal message. When I say, "Spring is the doors of your
house, my love," I’m offering the whole society, the new
world, the desire to live again in the midst of this powerful winter
we’re living. It was almost telepathic. The language of the
New Chilean Song was explicit, combative. Categorically, that was
its social expression. The idea of the Canto Nuevo was to
be able to write and say things without people knowing the hidden
message, except your friends, of course. That was an important challenge.
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