This week we turn to the famous tango “Tinta roja,” another highly impressionistic and nostalgic song, whose details evoke the old neighborhood life suffused in the inevitable sepia tones of the past. The masterful lyrics by Cátulo Castillo are made all the more memorable by Sebastián Piana’s recurring musical themes, and the catchy arrangement by Aníbal Troilo, featuring one of the more memorable performances by his early singer Francisco Fiorentino, is a favorite among dancers and listeners alike.
A few sidenotes… Buzón refers to the old red pillar boxes (postboxes) imported from England, some of which are still used in Buenos Aires. Bon vin is a tongue-in-cheek term used for house wine.
Red Ink
(Tr. Jake Spatz)
YouTube: Francisco Fiorentino (orq. Aníbal Troilo)
Boundary wall,
Your red ink in the gray of the past…
Your good mood with its brickwork of cheer…
Above my alley’s spot
With just a blot
Drew all the corner…
And that patrol
Who in the vastness of the night
Would shine the edges of his rounds
Like a medal…
And that pillar box maroon,
And that old saloon
Where there wept the paisan
For the fair one he had eyes on
And washed out in cheap wine.
Where shall I find my hood?
Who took my youth away?
Within what nook, my moon,
Does your bright joy pour down
The way it used to?
The streets I used to walk…
The hoodlums all long gone…
Beneath your cloudless skies
A piece of my heart lies
From dark to dawn.
Boundary wall…
Your red ink in the gray of the past…
And the spout of my blood in despair,
Which hit the window’s red
Geranium bed
Where she was hidden…
I don’t know—
Was it the black of my pains
Or was the red of your veins
What I was bleeding…
Why did she come and leave
Behind the old maroon
And that saloon’s far gray
Where a paisan wept away
His nostalgias in cheap wine.
Tinta roja (1941)
Music: Sebastián Piana
Lyrics: Cátulo Castillo
Paredón,
tinta roja en el gris del ayer…
Tu emoción de ladrillo feliz
sobre mi callejón
con un borrón
pintó la esquina…
Y al botón
que en el ancho de la noche
puso el filo de la ronda
como un broche…
Y aquel buzón carmín,
y aquel fondín
donde lloraba el tano
su rubio amor lejano
que mojaba con bon vin.
¿Dónde estará mi arrabal?
¿Quién se robó mi niñez?
¿En qué rincón, luna mía,
volcás como entonces
tu clara alegría?
Veredas que yo pisé,
malevos que ya no son,
bajo tu cielo de raso
trasnocha un pedazo
de mi corazón.
Paredón
tinta roja en el gris del ayer…
Borbotón de mi sangre infeliz
que vertí en el malvón
de aquel balcón
que la escondía…
Yo no sé
si fue negro de mis penas
o fue rojo de tus venas
mi sangría…
Por qué llegó y se fue
tras del carmín
y el gris fondín lejano
donde lloraba un tano
sus nostalgias de bon vin.