Chapter 2: The first radio program
by Terig Tucci with annotations by Camilo Gatica and José Manuel AraqueThe following day we met at the music room of the hotel. Rested now and after a succulent breakfast, in which we could appreciate the magnificent morning appetite of Castellano, the pianist, Gardel vigorously rubbing his hands together, with the impetus of an explorer who comes to conquer new worlds, all infinitely more cordial and enthusiastic than the previous evening, we began to go over the songs with which Gardel would debut on NBC in those same days. Mariani suggested as rubric of the programs the tango "Buenos Aires". This song, which seemed to us a happy choice, met with Gardel's immediate approval.
Buenos Aires was the city most identified with the artist's career. Since his arrival with his mother from his native France, when he was a very young boy, it was Buenos Aires where Gardel made his first steps. Buenos Aires, which later consecrated him as his favorite artist and baptized him with the name of El Zorzal Criollo.
When we had compiled the first program and after some instructions from Gardel and Mariani, I took the piano and singing parts to my house, to begin to prepare the orchestrations.
We had to make the most of the limited time we had, working on eight orchestrations and rubric, for an orchestra of thirty professors, which had to be ready in forty-eight hours. I worked all that day, that night, the next day and part of the night. Fortunately, I completed my task in just enough time to take a few hours of much-needed rest.
Bright and early that morning - the day of rehearsals and the program - with my assignment brought to a happy conclusion, I left my house, exhilarated as a child, heading for the NBC studios. We had a piano rehearsal beforehand. Some observations and corrections by Gardel were duly taken into account. With great satisfaction on my part, I was able to observe that Gardel was an extremely cooperative, accessible, approachable artist. His remarks were made as suggestions, almost shyly, fearful that his corrections might offend us.
After piano rehearsals we all went to the Santa Lucia, a small but magnificent Italian restaurant, located on 54th Street and Seventh Avenue, a few blocks from the NBC studios.
That same afternoon the orchestra rehearsals for the radio program were to take place. I was quite nervous, knowing the responsibility that fell on me as the author of the orchestrations and I kept asking myself: Will he like my work? will he challenge my efforts? Trying to overcome my doubts, I said to myself: I will know how to interpret his reaction by his gestures, by his expression... But, even though I was trying to get my courage up, terror tormented me and a cold sweat ran down my body.
It was time for the test. The professors were seated at their respective music stands; Gardel, completely self-possessed, was examining his songs; from his podium, Hugo Mariani, getting ready to start the rehearsal and clanging his baton, called the orchestra to order.
The first piece that was rehearsed was "Buenos Aires", the song that was to serve as rubric. Before an orchestra of that size, Gardel, fearful that it would interfere too much and thus hinder his work as interpreter, listened to the accompaniment with great attention and a certain suspicion, while he sang the lyrics in a low voice. He did not tolerate that anything could interfere with his singing, from time to time he would cast furious glances in the direction of the musicians. It was obvious that the artist considered the orchestra to be an opposing group... and dealing with this gang of musicians was no easy task. He was used to singing with guitars, which accompanied the singer in the simplest, sometimes naive terms, entirely subordinated to the fantasy or whim of the interpreter.
Until then Gardel had never sung with an orchestra of thirty professors, like the one that confronted him that afternoon, and very rarely with any orchestra, in which case the orchestral accompaniment had always been just a timid, shy murmur, reduced to filling the gaps in the melody, sometimes with true instrumental virtuosity, but generally anodyne, insubstantial chatter.
Before I began writing the instrumentations, I had taken the precaution of studying a number of Gardel's records with orchestral accompaniment. With rare exceptions, I found them inadequate. Accustomed to the aesthetics of North American instrumentation (the introduction of the microphone brought great modifications in the art of orchestral playing for radio and record) that Gardelian premise of musical shyness was difficult to accept. However, we could not upset the performer's wishes too much by abruptly introducing sound combinations to which he was not accustomed. My aesthetic credo is to merge performer and orchestra into a single sound mass; that the orchestra comments on the infinite emotional gradations of the song with the same intensity infused by the performer and that together, performer and orchestra, running through the range of human emotions, reach the vehement culmination of the interpretative realization, as in the climax of a drama.
That same afternoon I had the opportunity to verify that my strategy was well founded. One of the pieces being rehearsed was Charlo's beautiful tango "Cobardía". The refrain begins with the words:
“Yo sé que es mentira
todo lo que estás diciendo,
que soy en tu vida
solo un remordimiento”.
Thus he describes the painful via crucis of the tormented lover.
A stubborn crescendo of mortifying unhappiness reaches its climax in a strong emotional explosion, in which the instrumental forces, following the cumulative curve of the performer, burst into a powerful chord followed immediately by the echo, noble and resigned in harmony, which is almost a sigh of four brass instruments -two horns and two trombones, pianissimo- over which the performer announces the end of his immense tragedy:
“Lo sé, y sin embargo
Sin esa mentira
No puedo vivir.”
For an instant, we were all galvanized by the masterful interpretation of this superb artist, even those present who did not understand the Spanish text. We all, as one person, applauded with frenzied enthusiasm. Gardel, happy for his first triumph in New York, turned to me, and with the typical gesture of complete approval, consisting of holding his thumb and forefinger to the right side of his upper lip, as if twisting an imaginary moustache, he announced in the purest porteño accent:
-Che Tucci, macanudo viejo. ¡Macanudo!
That same night, the triumphant voice of Carlos Gardel, the zorzal criollo who came to conquer new laurels in the northern skies, was heard in countless millions of American homes.
Notes
