Rare is the time that I don’t have music playing in my homes in San Miguel de Allende and Winnipeg. And when I’m away from the machines that play it, especially in San Miguel de Allende, I might seek it out in restaurants and coffee shops. When there’s no music to be heard, it, nonetheless, continues to “play” in my head.

But after a couple of years wintering in Mexico, I realized that almost all the music with lyrics I listened to was in English. I knew some music in Spanish, some of the verses in José Feliciano’s songs, the Ry Cooder recording of the “Buena Vista Social Club,” the folk song “Guantanamera,” the Richie Valens hit “La Bamba” and Santana’s “Oye Como Va.” Other than that, I knew nothing Mexican. And I was ashamed.  

Discovering José Alfredo Jiménez

At the end of March 2019, our time in Mexico had come to an end, and we headed by bus to Puerto Vallarta, from which we’d take the plane to  Winnipeg. Ten hours straight on the bus was too much for us, so we booked a hotel halfway, in Guadalajara.  

The journey started well enough, the cab driver who picked us up being a pleasant fellow. In the 10-minute drive to the bus station, I tried, as usual, to make small talk, asking him who his favourite singer was: “¿Quién es su cantante favorito?”  

“José Alfredo Jiménez” was his quick but sincere answer. He proudly announced that Jiménez was born in Dolores Hidalgo, very near San Miguel de Allende. He boldly stated that nobody could hold a candle to Jiménez.  

I had heard his name but didn’t know Jiménez’s work. I promised myself that I’d listen to him at the first opportunity. That opportunity presented itself a mere five hours later when we caught a cab for the half-hour drive to our hotel in downtown Guadalajara. The driver, Hector — a very friendly, late middle-aged fellow — wanted to try out his limited English vocabulary. He was as fluent as I was in Spanish, which is to say, not very. 

We soon ran out of words for conversation. Noting that his radio was on, I again asked, using my well-practiced question, who his favorite singer was. Was it, perchance, José Alfredo Jiménez? 

A new list of favorites

I’d struck a chord. Jiménez was, indeed, among those he loved. He enthusiastically agreed with our previous driver that Jiménez — a singer-songwriter of over 1,000 mariachi, ranchera and corrido songs — was among Mexico’s greatest composers. Then, Hector started listing others of his favorites. I scrambled to get out my notebook and then wrote as he listed them: Pedro Infante, Vincente Fernández, Juan Gabriel and Javier Solís.

But listing names wasn’t enough to satisfy Hector’s excitement. He reached into the car’s glove compartment, pulled out a cassette tape and put it in the slot. I can’t remember who the singers were, nor which songs were played, but I’m sure that they were all mariachi, not surprising given that Guadalajara is mariachi’s “home.” 

At the second song in, he cranked up the volume and rolled down both front windows. When he stopped for a red light, so loud and so catchy was the music that some people on the sidewalk — many of them waiting for a bus — began singing along. A couple of exuberant fellows actually began to dance.

Learning about mariachi

The most characteristic style of music in central Mexico — Jalisco and Guanajuato — seems to be mariachi, songs about love, betrayal, death, politics, revolutionary heroes and country life, songs that speak to the core of the human experience: joy, heartbreak, heritage and passion. 

Mariachi bands typically consist of five or more musicians wearing charro suits, the charro being a kind of horseman originating in Jalisco in the early 1900s, essentially a Mexican equivalent to the cowboy. The instruments, some having  Spanish influence, are usually a violin, a vihuela (a 15th-century fretted instrument that’s shaped like a guitar and is plucked), a modern-day guitar, a guitarrón (a large, deep-bodied, Mexican six-string bass guitar) and a trumpet.  

Memory and nostalgia

In my younger days in Canada, I sang along with some Mexican songs. There was “La Cucaracha.” I heard it on the “Hit Parade,” sung by Bill Haley and the Comets.  

There was “Guantanamera” by The Sandpipers, “Oye Como Va” by Santana and, of course, the rollicking Richie Valens song, “La Bamba,” its gritty vocals and irresistible blend of sax, guitar, percussion and trumpet encouraging listeners to dance and let go. The two-minute whirlwind incorporating traditional Mexican folk rhythms has filled Canadian dance floors for 66 years. 

Most of the songs we hear in Mexico are unfamiliar to me, and I can repeat the words of only a few of them. For even fewer, do I know what the words mean. And, yet, there are songs that I know, songs that, somehow, make me feel I’m right at home.  

Mexican songs everyone should know

“Cielito Lindo” is one of them, considered by some to be Mexico’s unofficial national anthem. With its sweeping strings, bright horns and lyrics evoking the blue skies and natural beauty of Mexico, “Cielito Lindo” fills listeners with joy and pride, even though it’s a love song in which a man asks, or maybe orders, the woman he loves not to kiss anybody else.  

The elegiac tango song, “Volver,” beautifully conveys the profound nostalgia and longing experienced when — after many years of absence — one returns home to once familiar childhood places and people. The nostalgic melody and lyrics capture feelings of grief and sadness, yet also joy, over unforgettable memories of youth, even as the singer realizes how much places and people have changed.  

“Bésame Mucho” is a romantic bolero, where the singer begs his sweetheart for a kiss. First recorded in the early 1940s, this passionate ballad written by teenage songwriter Consuelo Velázquez was quickly picked up by non-Mexican singers, including Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, The Beatles and Andrea Bocelli, making “Bésame Mucho” a truly global Latin pop standard. 

Standards have many versions

The playful, yet melancholic, “Cucurrucucú Paloma,” utilizes rich metaphors, poetically referencing doves to express the profound anguish and agony of a painful breakup. The lyrics tell of palomas (rock doves or common pigeons) that no longer sing and a broken heart that cries out. 

One of Mexico’s most cherished songs, made famous in 1955 by Pedro Infante in the movie “Escuela de Vagabundos,” “Cucurrucucú Paloma” has been recorded by other Mexican greats, including Vicente Fernández. My favourite version, sung in the Pedro Almodovar movie, “Habla Con Ella” (“Talk to Her”), is by Brazilian Caetano Veloso.

Two days after our wonderful musical taxi ride with Hector, we took another cab back to the bus depot for the remainder of our trip to Puerto Vallarta. It was similarly entertaining. 

Our driver, Oscar, looked so much like Hector — short, late-forties, slicked-back hair, white shirt — that both Celia and I did a double-take. And, like Hector, Oscar was passionate about Mexican music. As we started the half-hour ride, we named singers, including the ones from Hector’s list, all of whom Oscar loved. And he played a  CD of some of his favorites.  

A Mexican cab driver’s musings

Then, conjuring up all the names of Mexican singers I knew, I asked if he liked Costa Rica-born but naturalized Mexican citizen Chavela Vargas, especially her song “La Llorona,” which I’d first heard on the “Talk to Her” soundtrack. Even though I was sitting behind him, it was obvious to me that he didn’t care for her. How about, I asked, Lila Downs, whom I had seen at the Winnipeg Folk Festival and in the role of Tina Modotti in the movie “Frida”? He recognized her name but didn’t know her music. How about Linda  Ronstadt, whose album, “Canciones de mi Padre,” had impressed me greatly? Or Violetta Parra, whose iconic song “Gracias a la Vida” has been interpreted by singers worldwide.

But I wasn’t done. “How about Richie Valens? You must know Richie Valens!” Of course! Oscar knew and loved him! Celia joined us in a rousing chorus of “La Bamba.”  The three of us were pumped!  

And so, I had to ask one more: “How about José Feliciano?” whose 1969 album,  “Feliciano/10 to 23,” had been among my Latin favorites. Well, yes, he was one of the worthy ones, even though Feliciano, Oscar informed me, was Puerto Rican. But the songs  Oscar knew weren’t the ones I was expecting. He sang, in English — and much better than I had done in Spanish — the refrain from “Light My Fire,” Feliciano’s brilliant interpretation of The Doors’ hit. We joined him, of course.  

Then, despite it being late March, months away from Christmas, Oscar launched into “Feliz Navidad,” both the English and Spanish parts, imitating Feliciano’s unique way of singing it. We were enthusiastically belting out the Christmas classic as we turned into the bus depot.  

From cab to bus

We knew we’d never see Oscar and Hector again. But we also knew that the music had served as a bridge between us. It had fostered a sense of connection and unity, had brought us together in song, despite our cultural and linguistic differences. 

We boarded the bus to Puerto Vallarta and began the next leg of our trip home, our connection to the country and its people reinforced and buoyed by the music and sounds of Mexico. 

Bruce Sarbit has wintered in San Miguel de Allende for many years.