Homosexuallord Fields votes for Los Shakers from Montevideo. Scroll down the post for MP3s.

Over at WFMU, probably the best music station in the world. Not much from this neck of the bosque, although they’ve got Los desechables, who I didn’t know, and the vile Eléctrica Dharma, who I do know and whose only merit is in having given rise to our freestyle pakrock outfit, Eléctrica Shoarma.

No mention of heroin, but presumably it is only a matter of time before inspectors start banning players for risky rasgueado and closing all those nasty cellars lacking in natural light. Camarón might still be alive if he had been given a cubicle and regular coffee breaks.

Señor Coconut was a timely reminder to those who needed one that the best performers of Latin American music have always been Central Europeans. Here’s der Onkel Bumba as immortalised by the Comedian Harmonists:

Their life made impossible by Mr Goebbels, half the Comedians ended up in the States, but an even stranger fate awaited Dajos [...]

Vicente Carballido has Ctrl-C/V-ed a piece by Anna Rosa Cisquella, exec producer at theatre company Dagoll Dagom. Cisquella is frustrated by the relative lack of success of their excellent production of Boscos endins, the translation into Catalan of Sondheim and Lapine’s Into the woods. A birdie unassociated with the production tells me that the show [...]

This non-authentic version of Paquito chocolatero is by King Africa, who is, according to Wikipedia, actually kind of American, and John Major’s favourite artist to boot:

Now an authentic version from Mike Oldfield, which doesn’t involve the mass simulation of anal sex popular down south:
The next three most favourite tunes are also pasodobles, namely Viva el [...]

One of the first times I played in public as a kid was at the local Polish club, and I remember trying to figure out what all these old folks were doing in this neighbourhood, amid numerous refugees from newer tyrannies in Asia and Africa and Latin America. After that it was a short conceptual [...]

Não é desgraça ser pobre, there ain’t no shame in being poor, and sometimes it’s better only being able to afford one tranny hooker.

By Amália Rodrigues, who I only discovered the other day.

When I saw this first I briefly thought it was Montjuïc viewed from Maians Island, where Quixote first saw the sea. But the sun sets west, not south, and those are mountains in the background, not clouds. So it must be Italy, somewhere. Here’s the text.

Generic Manu Chao-ist dumbagogy in Che Sudaka’s latest ¡uf!re, but a nice little Raval puppet theatre by Marta Pujol & Joan Picó:
Something with a bit more musical class (tho in playback) from pioneer Peret, Mataró-born and hence the only sensible reason why the genre is called rumba catalana instead of barcelonesa:

I sometimes wonder what would [...]

“I have in my mind the most masterly farts which, however, would be impossible to reproduce.” The farting policeman explains nevertheless how to perform the “Imperial”, the “Terminator” and the “Saturday Night”, which may or may not refer to the comparable artistic frustrations no doubt suffered by the admirable Mr Travolta.

Raquel Meller, the most successful Spanish artist of the 20th century, struggling with pitch and pace in 1914:

Sara Montiel, who made her name in the 50s singing old Raquel Meller songs, only much better:

Rudolph Valentino, who would have struggled to compete with barnyard animals had films not been silent:

Maybe the X Factor isn’t so bad [...]

This delectable flor del mal from Barcelona’s Poble Sec district is a daisychain from A Nun’s link to a review of a book dealing with degradation and deviancy in the same neighbourhood. New York, April 26 1926:
Ushers with tall combs and white mantillas stole back up the aisles as the house lights faded out. The [...]

I humbly draw your attention to a new minisite–fear of public shame may help me get round to doing it. Meanwhile the Barcelona historical almanac continues to progress, although the timeline and feed and various other stuff need fixing.

A flamencocrat says goodbye. I thought nation branding was the kind of thing undertaken only by scoundrels like Tony Blair and Andrei Zhdanov, both of whom were capable of presenting their villainy with slightly more tact.

Uliczkę znam w Barcelonie, by the great Sława Przybylska, who has no English-language Wikipedia entry, and who I first got to know during a dissolute spell in a village near Breslau, or whatever it’s called these days. I have no idea who sang the original or who wrote it–I’m guessing it wasn’t a Pole, since [...]

Meet El Novio de la Muerte/Death’s Groom, back from the tomb (he wasn’t human anyway), and his angel-wolf Canute:

Hear him sing “Agua de los ríos”:

More here, including ¡how Canuto saved Death’s Groom from serpents! ¡the treasure and the skeleton’s ring! and ¡El Novio’s unfortunate relationship with the head of the bað̞a’xoθ paddleboat fleet! Extremadura has [...]

I rather liked this interview with Andalusian import ethnomusicologist Gerard/Gerhard Steingress. Spaniards cheerfully call each other Nazis all the time, but when an Austrian uses the word it carries rather more weight. It will be interesting to see whether institutions down south continue to publish his work. Google him (with the h)–he’s distinctly more impressive [...]

One of the many etymologies of flamenco is rather curious. From the typically poor Spanish-language entry in Wikipedia:
Durante el siglo XVIII el asistente Olavide pretendió combatir el bandolerismo instaurando colonias de catolicos alemanes y flamencos (tenidos por disciplinados y laboriosos) en el Alto Guadalquivir. El fracaso de adaptación de muchos de ellos engrosó las [...]

Items:

Shasha: worn-out palm-broom. (Pott, Doppelung (Reduplikation, Gemination) als eines der wichtigsten Bildungsmittel der Sprache, beleuchtet aus Sprachen aller Welttheile (1862))
Gananciosa took a new-palm broom, which she found in the house, and with scratching it, made a sound, that though it was hoarse and rough, agreed well enough with [Escalanta's] patten… Rinconete and Cortadillo being surprized [...]

France’s finest trip over their own testicles once again, here alienating the trombone vote. Possibly.

(Mercy buckets, Dr Pete.) (Normal service to be resumed soon, so watch yer dirty mouth Manuel. Yes, you. They don’t call me Purple Boner for nothing.)

Found whilst burning a pile of flyers. Maybe Soulside will tell us if this was a conscious tribute to the rock-dotted “n” in “This is Spinal Tap”.

From Manuel Fraga’s dreadful Nuevos diálogos, found yesterday on the street (it’s becoming a habit):
An old French song reminds us that “the pleasure of love only lasts a moment, while the sorrow of love lasts for ever.”
A pragmatic English take, probably also old:
What’s the difference between love and herpes?
Herpes is for ever.
You kind of wonder [...]

I’ve only ever been a witness of vomiting and fighting at midnight mass, but none of this is new. One of today’s Libro verde items records that until a few years [before 1848], mass was sung at one in the morning, but that the irreverences of the ignorant made it impossible. Henceforth it was celebrated [...]

This afternoon I have been booked to appear as the Bishop of Myra. This is one of the songs I will not be singing, zoophilia being out of fashion in Barcelona’s Dutch community (but for how long?): Sinterklaas kapoentje, geef de kat een zoentje, geef de kat een likkie, trek hem aan z’n pikkie.

Bizet (2006), by Jaume Plensa (Barcelona, 1955), which went for around €12K + 20% government commission at Brok the other day:

Hypotheses:

Mr Plensa, a covert musicologist, has discovered extraordinary connections between Hector Berlioz, master of the grand and the imperial, and author of the works listed, and Georges Bizet, who dabbled in local colour several decades [...]

Exhibit 1 features Die Verdammte Spielerei and some blonde and was recorded in what will presumably be the Republic of Flanders by Monday. I suppose France will get Brussels.

Exhibit 2 is Tango gitano, which “forms part of a group of field materials documenting Maria Garcia performing unaccompanied Spanish songs from Asturias, Spain on January [...]

Demanding a paella of the Moderates, in today’s entry over at the new libro verde. Sequel: a week later, with defeat imminent, the same people sang, “Now it’s us in the frying pan.” (The 1843 Jamancia, from jamar, to eat, is one of Barcelona’s forgotten revolutions. Only a fool or a saint would attempt to [...]

“Much has been said on the subject but it is still a little known fact outside of Barcelona that it’s music scene is seriously ill. Years of neglect, conservatism and lack of investment has left this supposedly cultured modern city with a big hole where it’s grass roots live music scene should be. You’d expect, [...]

Doors often get left open when building works are going on in blocks of flats in Barcelona, enabling access to the terraces on top. Here’s a scaffold view of the San Antonio market with Montjuich behind taken following a pub piano session featuring Mr Jorge from Cuba and the consumption of immoderate quantities of beer:

The rector of neighbouring Saravillo allegedly had a cable installed connecting the bell with the rectory so that, making judicious use of his little toe, he could keep in touch with his flock without getting out of bed.

Folks seem to be going through a Kevin Johansen phase. Argentine music tends to Yankee-hating-up-Manu-Chao’s-arse bollocks, but “el Hugh Hefner Aragonés” is interesting and amusing:

It’s been done before, but here’s soundman, producer, director Luis Jimenez (if he really was any of these, and not a mere video-ripper) in footage of Maria La Sabina:

Ah, Spanish engineering in the 1860s! Since the factory only turned out two billiard tables a week, it’s difficult to see how they would have got round to satisfying the demands of smaller establishments with this kind of device, but never mind.

Jacques Brel’s appearance suggests that he shares substantial quantities of DNA with George Formby and Francis the Talking Mule. His scripts are even stranger:

I’m doing a little something for an NGO and it’s boring the tits off of me.

Some Friday morning cheer from Dubin & Monaco in a recording by Xavier Cugat, one of Hitler’s more unlikely faves:

Perhaps the prototype for the behijabbed suicide who asks, “Does my bomb look big in this?” Perhaps not.
Lina Romay, the sensational Catalan horror-porn star of films by the great Catalan director, Jess Franco, chose her stage [...]

Tutto Pavarotti was the title of the great man’s best-selling album, but even this proved a linguistic step too far for Spanish audiences. At concerts on the tour he was alarmed to see them rise en masse and chant “Tutto! Tutto!” in the belief that this was his first name.

A young Latino with a moderately loud blaster gets on at Sant Andreu. I’m trying to talk to people, so I’m grateful when a Latino security guard comes through the carriage just after Torre de Baró. He walks over to the young guy, taps him on the shoulder, motions him to turn UP the sound, [...]

To get away from British Spanish music would be a plausible explanation. Here two famous examples, a cover of George Formby’s Lancashire toreador and of Mike Read’s The Spaniard wot blighted my life:

I actually love them, but don’t tell.

April 1939, and the Valencian communist and later Mexican entrepreneur Arturo García Igual (Entre aquella España nuestra … y la peregrina, available in part on GBS) has, as a Stalinist commissar, been sent to the elite camp at Agde, France, where
night after night unsuspected talents [took to] an improvised stage: actors, comics, illusionists and cantaores [...]