Francisco Canaro: some love him, some hate him, but if you know me then you’ll know that my position is more nuanced. I adore his work with Charlo, and his valses, especially the early ones; and I also have a great affection for his work with Roberto Maida in the late 1930s. But when Maida quits at the end of 1938, the quality of Canaro’s work falls off a cliff. Nothing demonstrates this better than Canaro’s interpretation of Tormenta, Discépolo’s cry of existential dread. Canaro reduces the dark night of the soul to a soap opera in a performance that I can only describe as relentlessly superficial. I’ve long considered it the worst tango, ever; listening to it, for me, is a torment.
Tormenta (image generated by Bing AI)
Despite these obvious shortcomings, Canaro’s Tormenta has been a popular tango over the years: Canaro’s insistent, almost martial rhythm can get the dancers going. I remember complaining about Tormenta to a tango colleague twenty years ago. He commented: It’s like a cup of coffee… paused, and added: a bad cup of coffee. I have to say, he was bang on. Canaro’s Tormenta is a cup of bad instant coffee. It’s that big old jar of Nescafé that stares you in the face every time you open the kitchen cupboard, years after you’ve switched to something better. But for those moments in which you need a coffee so badly that even a bad one will do, it does the job.
Two decades later the scene seems to have tired of Tormenta; maybe we’ve finally finished that twenty year old maxi-jar of Nescafé. But the idea of a “go-to” tango that can make the dead dance has not gone away.
The mantle has been resting on D’Arienzo’s shoulders for a little while now – don’t forget that his music was once described as capable of waking the dead. In Argentina they used to play D’Arienzo’s La Bruja in this moment, but that’s not fast enough for us – especially once we started playing it at the proper (slower) speed. For a few years it was Mandria that we heard several times at almost every weekend event. Mandria is also like coffee, but it’s a good Italian coffee, a nice double espresso. Some of you may have noticed a not insignificant coincidence: both these interpretations were recorded in 1939, tango’s most intense year. Argentina was partying hard whilst in Europe the fuse ran down on the powder keg of war and then exploded.
So it was interesting for me to hear one D’Arienzo tango played three times in a weekend recently: El tigre Millán. Recorded one year after Mandria, this is not as hard and intense but it is even faster: 68 bpm compared to 67 bpm. That’s fast. D’Arienzo’s 1940 band is more sophisticated than his 1939 one, so this is a bit of a change in the community’s taste.
What next? Di Sarli’s Catamarca has been tried, but it’s just a bit too complex. Troilo perhaps? Sadly we have no recordings from 1939 and 1940. Milongueando en el 40 and the other classic 1941 sides don’t have the same intensity. They are more like a good cappucino: stimulating, yes, but meant to be savoured, rather than thrown back in a single gulp before the milonga. Perhaps some Biagi? Son cosas del bandoneón is well known but has never achieved the gold status of Tormenta, Mandria or El tigre Millán, whilst Pura clase is just too joyful. Gólgota? Too slow… reader I don’t know!
Tango artists such as Alfredo Eusebio Gobbi and his wife Flora (the parents of Alfredo Gobbi) travelled to Paris to record in 1909, when the possibilities to make recordings in Argentina were very limited, but the export of tango music from Buenos Aires to Europe seems to have begun only in the 1920s. Recordings of Canaro’s típica began to be released in Paris in (we think) 1925, presumably to capitalise on his arrival in the City of Light. Odeon France released, for example, Francesita (matrix 1721, DNO 6958-A) c/w (coupled with) Griseta (mx: 2365/1, DNO 4026-A) on the disc 49.110 / 49.111 (the two sides had different numbers in those days).
In 1926, Parlophone (a sister company of Odeon) released three discs in their premium ‘R’ (‘Royalty’) series. The first two featured Roberto Firpo, whilst the third was shared by Canaro and Maglio. These were acoustic recordings. The advertisement below appeared in the “Ladies’ Mirror” magazine in New Zealand in June 1926:
R3202 contained Humberto Canaro’s Alfredo, recorded in Bs As in 1924 and released there on DNO 4009-B.
The £ sign on the label represents the letter ‘L’ and thus the name of the parent company, Lindstrom – not so strange when one considers that the pound sign itself comes from the latin ‘L’ for libra pondo, the basic unit of weight in the Roman Empire, which in turn was derived from the Latin word libra, meaning scales.
With the success of Canaro’s trip to Europe (1925-26) Odeon embarked on a series they called ‘Odeon Tango’ – OT for short – in 1927. This series was the tango version of their Odeon Dance recordings (‘OD’); the fact that OT also stands for ‘Orquesta Típica’ is just a happy coincidence: not all the releases are tangos. These discs were printed in London, in the Netherlands, and even in Switzerland, and issued on the Parlophone and Odeon labels. All the discs present electrical recordings. Parlophone included either the matrix number or the Argentine disc number on the records, sometimes both. As far as we can tell, 191 records were issued and many remained in the catalogue for many years.
OT 117 (Dutch pressing) La cumparsita – photo courtesy Serjan Pruis. The Argentine disc number (4262) appears on the label, whilst the matrix number is scratched into the wax in the run-off area.
At the same time, Odeon made their own issues on the continent (France, Spain, Germany and Italy) with their own couplings. In France for example 238 084 presented Zaraza c/w Margaritas, neither of which appears in the OT series. Particularly interesting on this disc is evidence of an Odeon Europe internal reference number with the prefix ‘Bao’: Zaraza is Bao 1209, and Margaritas is Bao 1198. These numbers never appeared on OT series discs but we know that e.g. Alma del bandoneón (OT 133) was Bao 1678. Another example is a Spanish release, 182.152 which presented Retintin c/w Derecho viejo (the same coupling as DNO 4282 in Argentina). Retintin is listed as B.A.621, and Derecho viejo as B.A.620.
Finally, not all the Odeon Tango recordings were tangos. (OT 141) presented a pair of pasodobles by Roberto Firpo. At least one of these was released by Columbia in Japan.
Cat#
Artist
Title
Matrix
Cross reference
Date
Composer
OT 101
Francisco Canaro
Angustia
293-1
4251-A
10/1/1927
Horacio Pettorossi
OT 101
Francisco Canaro
Milonga con variación
747
4303-A
13/5/1927
Francisco Canaro
OT 102
Francisco Canaro
Canaro en Paris
799
4299-B
23/5/1927
Juan Caldarella – Alejandro Scarpino
OT 102
Francisco Canaro
Río de oro
1107-1
4353-A
16/8/1927
Lucio Demare
OT 103
Francisco Canaro
Arrabalero
712
4301-A
5/5/1927
Osvaldo Fresedo
OT 103
Francisco Canaro
Rezongos
713
4301-B
5/5/1927
José María Rizzutti
OT 104
Francisco Canaro
Barrio reo
519
4285-A
23/3/1927
Roberto Fugazot – Alfredo Navarrine
OT 104
Francisco Canaro
Araca, corazón
489
4268-A
17/3/1927
Enrique Delfino
OT 105
Francisco Canaro
Caído del cielo
1269
4352-A
3/9/1927
Pedro Polito – Antonio Polito
OT 105
Francisco Canaro
Queja Indiana
1303
4352-B
13/9/1927
Juan Rodriguez – Juan Miguel Velich
OT 106
Francisco Canaro
Noche de Reyes
1289
4355-A
07/09/1927
Pedro Maffia – Jorge Curri
OT 106
Francisco Canaro
Un tropezón
674
4289-A
27/4/1927
Raúl Joaquin de los Hoyos
OT 107
Francisco Canaro
Federación
469-1
4266-A
12/3/1927
Francisco Canaro & Luis Riccardi – Juan Andrés Caruso
Robert Zerrillo – Juan Carlos Howard – Enrique Cadícamo
[*] Regarding OT 176 Por vos… yo me rompo todo, the ‘dry’ matrix Take 1 was sent to England, whilst Take 2 (9814/1) was printed in Bs As on DNO 1.5093-A
[2] On OT-184, Salud, dinero y amor is the correct title, but the order of these three felicities was changed to accord better with European sensibilities.
[*] Regarding OT 190: alternate takes were sent to Europe for printing. For En un beso… la vida…! the ‘dry’ matrix 10716 was printed in Argentina, whilst take 4 (matrix 10716/3) was sent.
For Un amor, the ‘dry’ matrix 10770 was printed in Argentina, whilst take 3 (matrix 10716/2) was sent.
Back in the day, many record companies used to publish catalogues. Here is the Canaro listing from the Parlophone-Odeon catalogue of 1937-1938. You’ll observe that at this time the highest number released is OT-155.
This page was inspired by the page of Tyrone Settlemier and Robert Lachowitz. As that page seems to no longer be maintained I have produced a corrected table here. Thanks to Serjan Pruis for additional information. Matrix and disc numbers were checked against Christoph Lanner’s discography.
It’s easy to make mistakes in a big table like this. Seen any mistakes or omissions? Let us know.
On some early tango recordings we can hear the sound of a steel guitar being played with a slide, much like a blues guitar. It was used in more than a dozen recordings by Francisco Canaro in the years 1928-1930, for example his tango Mimosa (27-11-1929), in which the guitar starts it’s work at 1’08”:
Tango aficionados often refer to this as a Hawaiian guitar (and one of Canaro’s recordings featuring the instrument is a slow vals entitled Bells of Hawaii). If one only knows the Hawaiian guitar of today, which is an electric guitar played with a lot of vibrato, this might be a bit mysterious. Slide guitar is played all over America and is an essential part of blues music – why should we call this Hawaiian guitar?
It turns out that the Hawaiian guitar was a massive and important musical phenomenom in the 1910s and beyond, influencing music from the United States to India.
The guitar first arrived in Hawaii in 1832 with the Mexican and Spanish vaqueros (cowboys) hired by the King of Hawaii to work in the cattle ranches that had been set up by the Americans. When they left, the guitar remained, with its playing adapted to local tastes. As far as we know, the guitars brought at this time were tuned not in the modern tuning of a classical guitar, but in an open tuning. If you don’t play guitar, this means that it’s not necessary to finger any of the frets to produced a chord. This would greatly facilitate the later development of the Hawaiian style.
In the 1880s a young Hawaiian schoolboy named Joseph Kekuku discovered, supposedly accidentally, that if he slid a railroad spike along the strings, he got an interesting new sound. Placing the guitar in his lap and exchanging the spike for a steel bar, he developed a new style which was so successful that he would later tour first the USA and then Europe, where he played for royalty. The use of a steel bar gave rise to the terms “steel guitar” and later (perhaps to differentiate it from American blues styles) “lap steel”. It’s quite possible that the use of slides by American blues players was influenced by Hawaiian guitarsts such as Kekuku.
Hawaii and its music became fashionable in 1912 thanks to the Broadway production of The Bird of Paradise, a melodrama set on the island. The show was a smash, running for twelve years. Following on from the impact this created, the world’s fair held in 1915 in San Francisco (the Panama-Pacific International Exhibition) brought in some Hawaiian musicians in order to promote tourism (Hawaii having been annexed by the USA in 1898), Keoki Awai’s Royal Hawaiian Quartette.
But the first artist to become a recording star was Frank Ferera, one of a number of artists recorded by Victor in New York in 1915. Here he is playing Kawaihau waltz backed by Helen Louise – the recording is from the Library of Congress:
The presence of Hawaiian musicians created a craze for Hawaiian music that lasted for years, and in 1919 “The Bird of Paradise” (incorportaing Kekuku on Hawaiian guitar) began touring Europe. This was not the first contact of Hawaiian culture with Europe, however: the dance troupe featuring Jennie Wilson (Kini Kapahu) had toured Europe in 1894. These groups were successful with audiences of all social classes, but especially with the upper class and royalty. Groups penetrated as far as Russia and India, where it not only infiltrated Bollywood but also generated the guitar style of Indian Classical Music – if you want to hear that, check out the 1992 collaboration between American guitar guru Ry Cooder and the Indian guitarist Vishwa Mohan Bhatt, A Meeting by the River.
In 1931, the Ro-Pat-In Company (later renamed Rickenbacker) in the United States invented an electric version of the Hawaiian guitar, and the sound that the modern listener thinks of as Hawaiian guitar was born. Because the guitar was now electric, it no longer needed a large, resonating body. You can tell what the shape of the new guitar reminded its inventors of from the name they gave it: the frying pan guitar! This was the first successful electrified instrument of any kind, fully two decades before the advent of solid body electric guitars such as Gibson’s iconic Les Paul.
The new electric Hawaiian guitar was a big hit and propelled Hawaiian music back into the mainstream. The breakthrough song was the big hit of 1933, My Little Grass Shack In Kealakekua, Hawaii here being played with an acoustic lap steel guitar by Sol Hoʻopiʻi (who only switched to an electric guitar two years later):
This song was a massive hit; the 1934 recording by Ted Fio Rito and His Orchestra reached Number 1 in the United States. My favourite US version, however, is that of Paul Whiteman and His Orchestra. An intriguing detail on the linked video is the subtitle: Mi casita en Hawaii, implying that the song was widely performed in South America.
1935 saw the inception of a radio programme in Waikiki (a beachfront neigbourhood of Hawaii’s capital, Honolulu) called Hawaii Calls. The show became so successful that it ran for 40 years; at its height, it was relayed to more than 750 stations around the world. The house band was initially conducted by the American musician Harry Owens, musical director of The Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Waikiki. One of his compositions was Sweet Leilani, which he wrote for the birth of his daughter in October 1934. The song was included in the 1937 Hawaiian themed Bing Crosby film Waikiki Wedding, winning the Oscar for Best Song:
As the Hawaiian bands toured, the music took root. Local groups sprang up such as the English band Felix Mendelssohn and His Hawaiian Serenaders. In the video below, from 1939, one can see an electric Hawaiian steel guitar with 8 strings instead of the usual 6. (Mendelsohn isn’t playing: like Juan D’Arienzo, much as he loved music, he had little musical talent himself). All pretence of the instrument resembling a guitar has now been lost:
So, what sort of instrument were Argentine guitarists playing when they played Hawaiian guitar – and how did they play it? To answer this, let’s turn back to the recordings made on the Victor label in 1927-1928 by the guitar duo Les Loups, whose players were the Brazilian Gastão Bueno Lobo – the man who introduced both the banjo and the Hawaiian guitar to Brazil – and the Argentine Oscar Alemán. (The Victor company also used them in eight recordings to back the violin of Elvino Vardaro, calling the resulting aggregation the Trío Victor).
The publicity photo below shows Bueno Lobo playing the guitar in his lap. In the caption below the photograph, Victor promote the duo as “extraordinary players of the Hawaiian guitar”. As you can see, it’s Bueno Lobo (R) who actually plays Hawaiian guitar, whilst Oscar Alemán (L) accompanies him.
Here they are playing their own composition Hawayanita (Little Hawaiian girl), which according to the sheet music was a hit for songstress Mercedes Simone:
Investigating this topic was a surprise for me. Hawaiian music has had a big influence on music worldwide, far out of proportion to the tiny size of this island nation. Its effects stretched from the United States to England, Greece, Egypt, Russia, India and our beloved Argentina.
References:
“Rethinking Race in Modern Argentina” ed. Paulina Alberto & Eduardo Elena, ISBN 1316477843, p76.
“The Hawaiian Steel Guitar and Its Great Hawaiian Musicians” ed. Lorene Ruymar