Chapter 5, p.14 Ricardo Vidort

Ricardo

「把銀髮往額前一梳，
──你談起那個流氓味的探戈。」
——阿爾貝托・卡斯蒂略（Alberto Castillo），〈El Tango Es El Tango〉

我思考這一頁的內容很久了，

卻一直無法下筆。

我一再拖延，遲遲不願開始。

部分原因是——這裡有太多影片、太多回憶。

另一部分原因是——這篇文章可能會變得有點太私人。

但若要談探戈，若沒有 Ricardo Vidort，那就不完整。

所以，是時候了。

我想，當你陷入停滯時，最好的辦法就是遵循《愛麗絲夢遊仙境》中國王對白兔的建議：

「從頭開始，

一直走到結尾，

然後——停下來。」

那麼，就開始吧。

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頁首的探戈〈El Tango Es El Tango〉開場詞已經有將近七十年歷史，

但它指涉的，其實是更早的時代。

這裡是翻譯成「美式英文」的版本：

「你站在那裡，把油膩的髮膏梳進額前那撮 Elvis 式的捲髮裡，

一邊談論著那老派的『流氓探戈』。」

這句話是對一位男子說的——

他認為，真正的探戈，只存在於早期「compadritos」的時代。

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Compadritos（康帕德里托），

是十九世紀末到二十世紀初，

徘徊於布宜諾斯艾利斯街頭的一群男子。

他們在探戈的興起與普及中，扮演了關鍵角色。

你或許在舊阿根廷電影中見過他們的形象：

脖子上繫著絲巾，穿著刺繡背心（歌詞裡也提到這些），

額前垂著一撮「jopo」（類似 Elvis 或 James Dean 的髮捲）。

人們說 compadrito 是從鄉野牛仔（gaucho）傳承下來的「市區浪子」：

他帶著刀（最初是牛仔宰牛用的），

討厭工作，

卻活在女人與探戈之間。

這個詞在布宜諾斯艾利斯的歷史中根深蒂固，

甚至成為一個動詞。

例如，在探戈歌曲〈Tres Esquinas〉裡，

歌詞提到探戈曾經「compadrié」在 Barracas 區的街角——

我在第四章中把它翻譯成「昂首闊步」，

但其實那詞彙包含了整個 compadrito 的驕傲姿態與生活哲學。

隨著時間流逝，

我認為這種 compadrito 的神話形象，

逐漸演化成了現代所謂的 milonguero（米隆蓋羅）。

而這就引出一個問題——

究竟什麼是 milonguero？

（好吧……別翻白眼，我知道我們談過無數次，但這次還是得再回來一次。）

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在最廣義的定義中，

milonguero 指的是「任何參加 milonga（探戈舞會）的人」。

你走進丹佛的一間探戈舞會，

你就成了 milonguero。

依這個定義，全世界到處都是 milongueros——

數以百萬計。

但若我們把定義縮窄一點：

milonguero 是那種每天都去 milonga、除了探戈別無人生的人。

對他來說，沒有探戈的生活就像虛空。

而且——

如果他哪天不再出現在舞會上，

整個探戈圈都會因此改變、失去光彩。

以這樣嚴格的標準來說，

真正符合的人幾乎只有兩位：Alito 和 Tete。

但在去年以前，還有第三位。

他比他們更「milonguero」，

甚至超越了這個詞本身——

因為他不只是個 milonguero，

他是一位真正的 compadrito。

從開頭開始（Begin at the Beginning）

2001 年，正值阿根廷經濟跌入谷底的時候，
我漫無目的地走進了布宜諾斯艾利斯市中心艾斯美拉達街（Esmeralda Street）上一間地窖式的俱樂部。
那並不是一家探戈俱樂部，
但我聽說，一位著名的 milonguero（老派探戈舞者）要在那裡開課。

我準時到達時，整個地方黑漆漆、空無一人——
只有吧台邊有兩名男子，小聲地聊天。
我走上前問他們是不是這裡有課，
其中一人含糊地說：「是啊，應該會有課。
如果你願意，我可以放點音樂。」
我點頭說好。
既然沒別人來，我就自己上舞池練走步。

我在那裡一圈圈地走，心裡納悶著：
到底會不會真的有人來？
就在我開始失去節奏感的時候，我停了一下，
等找回音樂的拍子後，又重新走了起來。

大約一分鐘後，那位一直沒開口的男人走過來，對我說：
「你剛才做得很好。你走著走著失去了 compás（節拍），
但你立刻停下來，重新找到節奏。
大多數人不會這麼做。」
說完，他回到吧台坐下，我繼續練步。

又過了一會兒，一位女人走下樓梯，
在那兩位男人旁邊坐了下來。

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我曾在前幾頁談過，
人生中一些深刻的轉折點，往往是在你毫無察覺時悄然降臨。
你可能當下完全沒意識到——
甚至那一刻就這樣溜走，
直到多年之後才恍然發現：
那原來是一個關鍵時刻。

回想起那個夜晚，
當時其實一點都不特別。
雖然我記得那晚的情景，
但我早已不記得，是誰告訴我那間不起眼的俱樂部的。

那天晚上，
我是唯一一個出現在課堂上的人。
三週之後，那家俱樂部和它的 milonga 也都關門了。

直到好幾個月後，我才意識到——
當晚坐在吧台邊、默默看著我練步的那兩位男人，
是全世界最頂尖的探戈舞者之一。
後來，他們都成了我生命中的長輩與導師……
而那位與他們坐在一起的女人，
最終成了我的妻子。

原文

"Peinando plata en el jopo,
--hablás del tango malevo."
--------------------------------------Alberto Castillo, El Tango Es El Tango

 

I’ve thought about this page for a long time, but I just couldn't seem to get going. I kept putting it off. Part of the reason is that there’s so much video—and so many memories as well. And part is that it may end up being a little too personal. But a website about tango wouldn’t be complete without Ricardo Vidort, so it’s time. I guess the best thing to do when you’re stuck is to follow the advice the King gave to the White Rabbit in Alice: "Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end: then stop." So here we go.

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The opening lines from the tango at the top of this page are almost seventy years old, but they refer to an even earlier time. Here's a translation Norte Americano:

“You stand there combing grease into your Elvis-style hair,
  and talk about the old tough-guy tango.”

The lines are addressed to a man who believes that the only real tango is the early tango of the compadritos. Compadritos were the guys who hung out on the streets of Buenos Aires around the turn of the century (which would have been about 40 years before these words were written), and who played a big part in popularizing tango. You may have seen them portrayed in old Argentine movies. They usually had a silk neck scarf and embroidered vests, (which are also mentioned in the tango), and a “jopo”, which is a curl of hair that hangs over the forehead (something like the swirls of hair Elvis and James Dean used to have).

A compadrito was reputed to have been a kind of macho, but amiable scoundrel, who descended from the gauchos. He carried a knife (originally used by gauchos for skinning cattle), he avoided work, and he lived for women and tango. The word is such a part of the history of Buenos Aires that it’s sometimes used as a verb. For instance, there are lyrics in Tres Esquinas that say tango used to “compadrié” on the street corners in Barrio Barracas. (In Chapter 4, I translated compadrié as “strutted”, but it really encompasses the entire proud attitude and way of life of the compadritos.) Over time, I think the compadrito myth eventually evolved into what is known today as a milonguero. Which raises this question: What exactly is a milonguero? (Okay… no eye rolling. I realize we've discussed this so many times it’s ridiculous, but I have to return to it for a minute.)

In its broadest definition, a milonguero is anyone who goes to a milonga. Walk into a room in Denver where people are dancing tango, and you become a milonguero. So by that definition, the world is full of milongueros. There are millions. But we could narrow the field somewhat by defining a milonguero as someone who goes to the milongas every day, and who lives for tango to the exclusion of almost everything else. Someone for whom life without tango would be a meaningless vacuum. And also, someone whose absence from the milongas would change and diminish the tango world so much that it would never be the same. This strict definition narrows the field down quite a bit. In fact, it narrows it down to two: Alito and Tete. But up until last year, there was a third milonguero, who was even more “milonguero” than they are. In fact, he was a man who was something even rarer than a pure milonguero. He was a compadrito.

Begin at the Beginning

In 2001, just as the Argentine economy was hitting rock bottom, I wandered into a basement club on Esmeralda Street in downtown Buenos Aires. It wasn't a tango club, but I'd heard someone say that a famous milonguero was going to give a lesson there. Although I arrived on time, the place was dark and deserted—except for two men talking quietly at the bar. When I went up to ask if I was in the right place, one of them said vaguely, "Yes there should be a lesson. If you want I can put on some music." I said okay, and since no one else was there, I went onto the floor and began to practice my walking. As I was out there going around in circles, wondering if anyone who had anything to do with tango was going to show up, I lost the cadence. So I hesitated for a moment, and then when I got back in the music, I started up again. A minute later, the man who hadn't spoken came over and said, "What you did is very good. You lost the compás, but you stopped right away, and then you found it again. Most people don't do that." Then he went back and sat down at the bar, and I went back to practicing. A minute later a woman came down the stairs and sat down with to the two men.

In earlier pages I've talked about how profound turning points in life can sometimes sneak up on you. How you may not see them coming at all… and not only that, how they can slip right by and go unrecognized until much later. As I think back on it, there was certainly nothing that seemed special about that evening. And although I remember it well, I don't remember who told me about that inconspicuous club. I was the only person who showed up for the lesson, and three weeks later, the club and its milonga would both close. It wasn't until months later that I began to realize that the men at the bar watching me practice that night were two of the best tango dancers in the world. Both of them would eventually become like uncles to me… and the woman sitting with them would become my wife.

 

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