By Federnando Quiroz.
THE CENTURION OF THE NIGHT
THE JOE ARROYO, A MUSICAL LIFE
MAURICIO SILVIA GUZMÁN
To my dear parentsCHAPTER ONE
Rebelión: 1989
Quiero contarle, mi hermano, un pedacito de la historia negra, de la historia nuestra, caballero. Y dice así.../ I would tell you, my friend, a little bit about the black hisory, our black history. And it goes like that....
En los años 1600 Que aún se escucha en la verja:
cuando el tirano mandó español con el alma negra,
las calles de Cartagena no le pegue na'
aquella historia vivió no le pegue na'
no le pegue a jeva
Cuando aquí
llegaban esos negreros Oye, porque el negro se te rebela,
africanos en cadenas, chapetón con el alma friega
besaban mi tierra abra puño y va apretando al prieta.
esclavitud perpetua No le pegue a la prieta,
porque la negra se me respeta.
Un matrimonio africano
esclavos de un español, Abusador que le pegue a jeva
él le daba muy mal trato que alma, que el alma,
y a su negra le pegó que alma, que el alma
se me respeta.
Y fue allí Oye, no le pegue a mi negrana
se rebeló el negro guapo porque el alma se me agita, mi prieta.
como venganza por su amor Hay lamento en la playa, nena,
y aún se escucha en la verja en las playas de Cartagena
no le pegue a mi negra no, no, no, no, de Marbella bella,
el alma negra que canta y que llora
Oye men, no le pegue a la negra, por que entonces el negro se venga
oye, esa negra se me respeta,
que aún se escucha en verja: No le pegue a la negra.
No, no, no, no, no, no,
no le pegue a la jeva
Joe Arroyo was born in Africa. Some parts of Africa from America. In that very dark, mischievous, happy, slack and musical from the black Colombia, which is called Nariño, a little neighborhood from Cartagena, where the Palenqueros de San Basilio had set, which is at the same time a resided village like La berenjena and abandoned just like a Palenque inhabitant in Colombia.
There was born the ''Afro-Caribbean best danced in the history of the country''- a very important tittle of the people who like the tap one's feet-. On the top, in the most African version of Cartagena, among the ashes, dearth and noise, in a miserable hill, where we can hear the yellings of criolla mix of Spanish, Portugese and Bantu that since four-hundred years ago the runaway slave descendents, who escaped from the slavory, had spread. Right there, a few metres from the Caribbean sea, was originated Álvaro José Arroyo Gonzáles, in that dark village, one of the most Africas of Colombia.
Just like many people who lives in this planet now, the Joe was given the letal and effective mix of poorness and wish. The Cartagenean genius is a result for the hot fantasy proyected in half-full 1954, which is the begining of an extraordinary story about music and passion, and had something in Ángela González the chosen one. Sanint woman!
She was exactly a beautiful dark-skined lady-today in the kindom of the skies-who confessed once that without finishing the primary, she'd got to contribute money for her house, so she'd got to look for any job. Thanks to a recomendation, she found a job as a maid in a house of a capitan of an army, located in the Bocagrande nieghborhood, an ample terrain in process of construction where as soos as it's possible were some houses at the top of rich Cartagenean citizen.
The day of beginning of her job was the same day of her debut in the use of the cape in the bullring of harass, ment, thanks to someone, who was at the residence and worked there too, named Guillermo Arroyo, a building worker who was specialised in the gardening and the rest of his time in filirtation. The Guillermo's outburst, a married man with two children, was cutting and powerful, so Ángela, at the age of 20, had to goad against the boards.
That girls, fine and thin like the mayority of Cartagenean people at her age, had received from Guillermo such kind of onslaught until one day, after one year and a half of dangerous dirty tricks, one of them found its mark. ´´It's not only promises. This is serious´´, Guillermo swore.
In April 1955, Ángela confessed the lovely secret in her house, composed by the grandmother, the father, the mother and two sisters, and as might be expected she heard a choir that said: ´´But sweetie, that man is married´´´. Too late. Ángela hadn't only opened her heart but all the badges of her dress and, fisicly, the Joe was alredy a fact.
Shameless and romatic, as he was always, Guillermo accepted the responsability, he left his wife and children and rent a room in Bruselas, which is an extension of Nariño neirborhood. In October 1955, Ángela was like a ball and had to endure the closure for the account of the rains that for a long month made closed all the neirborhoods that surround La Popa hill, in Cartagena.
In the night of the last day of the month, on halloween's day, Ángela felt the first beatings of the birth. It was raining too much and as was coming November. Angéla felt that her son was knocking on the door of this world. The rain was very frightening and brought with him bolts and thunders.
The couple was very upset and Guillermo, as possible as it is, tried to take the woman out of, but he found a thick-water river in front of their house. Ángela screamed and the garderner had no more choice than covering his wife in plastic and make a kind of umbrella with other ones protecting all their home. The Poverty Dance.
Having water from the toes to the waist, about 4 o' clock in the morning, Guillermo carried his wife on her arms and went out to aks for help. He crushed, and besides he never found sidewalk, never fell down. The land of The Popa hill was through his legs. Ángela was crying with so much pain. Finally, the three of them came at the corner of a street where the transportation services pass by righ to the middle of the city. Guillermo stood his wife on the top of a house roof, rested, checked the plastic and as possible as he could, he covered all his family while a miracle was about to happen.
One hour and a half later, during the deluge, a bus arrived just starting their services. Guillermo got in that old crock and showing his wife begged the bus driver to take them to Santa Clara Hospital, where there they assisted during the previous birth check-ups.
So the maniatical obssesion about music made its first appearance in the genius. On the back seats of the vehicle came half-dozen drunk musician, instruments in hand, with a recent poorly-tempered nature of a given serenade.When they saw the episode of the woman giving birth, the drunkards had no other reaction than making music thus they eased the shrieks concert of Ángela. Nobody remembered the song. Too bad!
By time they got the hospital, the father in its infacy took the pregnant teenager down who didn't stop crying. After the check-up, the doctor and the nurses assured that it was not the right time yet. They had to wait.
Only up to that moment they were received in the birthing room, and at 2:00 P.M. o´clock in the afternoon on November 1st 1955 Álvaro Jose Arroyo González arrived to this world. In this way began the most menticulus amazing musical career a black person had ever had in Colombia.
Less than a year after the historic birth, arrived the second child to Arroyo's house and, at a similar time, arrived the third one. So, the famous Guillermo Arroyo, El Negro Chombo, left his home and, according to the same Ángela in life, the length and breadth of the country, including San Andres Island where he still lives, conceived 37 children. Ángela, for her part, changed jobs and worked in the housekeeping departments in the beachfront hotels in Marbella. The Joe raised with his maternal grandmother, Ms. Ana Chávez and, as in any other poor neighborhood, street was his most loyal companion.
Right there in Nariño, in that Colombian Africa, the myth of the kid touched by God in the throat was forged, of the professional teenager who sang in many brothels, of the empiric guy who was music himself, of the most influential voice of the Colombian tropical music in the 20th century, of the source of happiness and coolness, of the inventor of a style, of the revolutionary, of the folkloric archeologist, of the reliable proof of Africa in America, of the 47 albums voice, the long-winded autor of more than a hundred songs, of the creator of more than fourthy hits that achieved the #1 in different tops of the country, the owner of many musical collection in the Colombian record history, of the idol of masses, of the filtry man, the man dubdued by women, of the foolish guy, of the good guy, of the irremediable row coca pasta cigar smoker, of the lonely man, of the genius, of the eternal man, of the black man who stirred up and won.
There is no doubt: The Joe is rebellion.
Just like many people who lives in this planet now, the Joe was given the letal and effective mix of poorness and wish. The Cartagenean genius is a result for the hot fantasy proyected in half-full 1954, which is the begining of an extraordinary story about music and passion, and had something in Ángela González the chosen one. Sanint woman!
She was exactly a beautiful dark-skined lady-today in the kindom of the skies-who confessed once that without finishing the primary, she'd got to contribute money for her house, so she'd got to look for any job. Thanks to a recomendation, she found a job as a maid in a house of a capitan of an army, located in the Bocagrande nieghborhood, an ample terrain in process of construction where as soos as it's possible were some houses at the top of rich Cartagenean citizen.
The day of beginning of her job was the same day of her debut in the use of the cape in the bullring of harass, ment, thanks to someone, who was at the residence and worked there too, named Guillermo Arroyo, a building worker who was specialised in the gardening and the rest of his time in filirtation. The Guillermo's outburst, a married man with two children, was cutting and powerful, so Ángela, at the age of 20, had to goad against the boards.
That girls, fine and thin like the mayority of Cartagenean people at her age, had received from Guillermo such kind of onslaught until one day, after one year and a half of dangerous dirty tricks, one of them found its mark. ´´It's not only promises. This is serious´´, Guillermo swore.
In April 1955, Ángela confessed the lovely secret in her house, composed by the grandmother, the father, the mother and two sisters, and as might be expected she heard a choir that said: ´´But sweetie, that man is married´´´. Too late. Ángela hadn't only opened her heart but all the badges of her dress and, fisicly, the Joe was alredy a fact.
Shameless and romatic, as he was always, Guillermo accepted the responsability, he left his wife and children and rent a room in Bruselas, which is an extension of Nariño neirborhood. In October 1955, Ángela was like a ball and had to endure the closure for the account of the rains that for a long month made closed all the neirborhoods that surround La Popa hill, in Cartagena.
In the night of the last day of the month, on halloween's day, Ángela felt the first beatings of the birth. It was raining too much and as was coming November. Angéla felt that her son was knocking on the door of this world. The rain was very frightening and brought with him bolts and thunders.
The couple was very upset and Guillermo, as possible as it is, tried to take the woman out of, but he found a thick-water river in front of their house. Ángela screamed and the garderner had no more choice than covering his wife in plastic and make a kind of umbrella with other ones protecting all their home. The Poverty Dance.
Having water from the toes to the waist, about 4 o' clock in the morning, Guillermo carried his wife on her arms and went out to aks for help. He crushed, and besides he never found sidewalk, never fell down. The land of The Popa hill was through his legs. Ángela was crying with so much pain. Finally, the three of them came at the corner of a street where the transportation services pass by righ to the middle of the city. Guillermo stood his wife on the top of a house roof, rested, checked the plastic and as possible as he could, he covered all his family while a miracle was about to happen.
One hour and a half later, during the deluge, a bus arrived just starting their services. Guillermo got in that old crock and showing his wife begged the bus driver to take them to Santa Clara Hospital, where there they assisted during the previous birth check-ups.
So the maniatical obssesion about music made its first appearance in the genius. On the back seats of the vehicle came half-dozen drunk musician, instruments in hand, with a recent poorly-tempered nature of a given serenade.When they saw the episode of the woman giving birth, the drunkards had no other reaction than making music thus they eased the shrieks concert of Ángela. Nobody remembered the song. Too bad!
By time they got the hospital, the father in its infacy took the pregnant teenager down who didn't stop crying. After the check-up, the doctor and the nurses assured that it was not the right time yet. They had to wait.
Only up to that moment they were received in the birthing room, and at 2:00 P.M. o´clock in the afternoon on November 1st 1955 Álvaro Jose Arroyo González arrived to this world. In this way began the most menticulus amazing musical career a black person had ever had in Colombia.
Less than a year after the historic birth, arrived the second child to Arroyo's house and, at a similar time, arrived the third one. So, the famous Guillermo Arroyo, El Negro Chombo, left his home and, according to the same Ángela in life, the length and breadth of the country, including San Andres Island where he still lives, conceived 37 children. Ángela, for her part, changed jobs and worked in the housekeeping departments in the beachfront hotels in Marbella. The Joe raised with his maternal grandmother, Ms. Ana Chávez and, as in any other poor neighborhood, street was his most loyal companion.
Right there in Nariño, in that Colombian Africa, the myth of the kid touched by God in the throat was forged, of the professional teenager who sang in many brothels, of the empiric guy who was music himself, of the most influential voice of the Colombian tropical music in the 20th century, of the source of happiness and coolness, of the inventor of a style, of the revolutionary, of the folkloric archeologist, of the reliable proof of Africa in America, of the 47 albums voice, the long-winded autor of more than a hundred songs, of the creator of more than fourthy hits that achieved the #1 in different tops of the country, the owner of many musical collection in the Colombian record history, of the idol of masses, of the filtry man, the man dubdued by women, of the foolish guy, of the good guy, of the irremediable row coca pasta cigar smoker, of the lonely man, of the genius, of the eternal man, of the black man who stirred up and won.
There is no doubt: The Joe is rebellion.
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