I’ve briefly written about Don Atahualpa before. I’m not going to write much about him now. But last night, late, outside with the laptop, looking at videos, surrounded by trees and stars, I found these three videos of him and it reminded me why his music is so timeless.
This one is allegedly the last song he recorded. The song is called La Pura Verdad (Nothing but the Truth).
Here’s a rough translation:
For singing, the voice doesn’t count. All we need is our whole heart in the verse. As long as there is sunlight, they’re not songs. Walking at night, surrounded by silence, they’re better sung. Hitting the stones with my dear march, it marks the beats of my heart. Behind the mountains i make my drum, with my distance and my hope, I will have sung. For singing, the voice doesn’t count. All we need is our whole heart in the verse.
What goes into the head, leaves the head. What goes into the heart, stays there forever.
You want to know why? Listen closely, it’s because nothing but the truth can enter the heart.
When you have a sorrow, when you have a pain, if they are true, they’ll reach your heart.
You want to know why? Listen closely, it’s because nothing but the truth can enter the heart.
What goes into the head, leaves the head. What goes into the heart, stays there forever.
Here he is singing El Carretero (The Wagoneer):
And again my rough translation:
Once because I wanted, I went arond exploiting horses. No one came along with me. No one opened the gate. Once I was a tamer, now I ride with a wagon, the horses weren’t enough, that turn caught up with me. Calm and serene, I don’t feel the miles I make. My oxen go very slowly, and I’ve got patience to spare. Many gallop past me; others pass me at half speed. I don’t envy any of them, who knows what turn they’ll meet. Lovely the life of a wagoneer, for those who do not have any wants.
And finally, this clip is from one of my favorite song of his, Los Ejes de Mi Carreta (The Axles of my Wagon).
On a previous post you may have seen how Los Albas pretty much butchered it. Now here’s Don Atahualpa doing it justice.
And one last rough translation:
Cause I don’t grease the axles, they call me a vagrant man. But if I like the noise they make, why should I want to stop the sound. It’s just too boring to follow and follow the path. Walking the same old roads, with no one by my side. I don’t need silence, I got no one to think about, I used to, but that was long ago, now I don’t think anymore.
