Bullish on the music

CONTROVERSY and music intertwine, naturally, in the world of son jarocho.

Hundreds of musicians from throughout Mexico -- plus a rock star from L.A. -- converged on this riverside town last week for the annual folk music festival that unfolded amid an animal cruelty dust-up linked to the town’s concurrent running of the bulls. But participants in what is one of the largest gatherings of folk musicians in Mexico seemed far more interested in their song-and-dance tradition, however, to worry much about politics.

Besides, the music festival had its own internal conflict, as organizers locked horns over the unruly format of the 27th annual Encuentro de Jaraneros y Decimistas, or gathering of musicians and poets. Conflicts over such things as time allotted to each act in the huge lineup played out like a family feud between festival heavyweights.

But it was also a positive sign of growing pains.

Once on the verge of extinction, the fast-paced and irresistibly rhythmic son jarocho (pronounced ha-RO-cho) is undergoing a revival. The genre is being fueled by a new generation of jaraneros, a name derived from the genre’s typically small guitar, or jarana. This evolution of son jarocho doesn’t have a new name yet, but it definitely has a new energy and fresh sound.

In other words, this is not your abuelito’s “La Bamba,” the song that is perhaps the genre’s most famous export.

Though tradition is still treasured, sometimes obsessively, young bands are breaking molds by adding more instruments to the traditional all-string sound, more defiance to the dancing, sizzle to the tambourine and rattle to the jawbone. Young jaraneros have embraced it with a zeal akin to U.S. musicians in the 1960s who took folk and blues and turned it into something called rock.

The musical gathering has become a sociological as well as a cultural phenomenon. This year, two researchers from the Urban Institute came to study the event as an example of cultural exchanges between what they call trans-national communities. The Washington, D.C., think tank is interested in the festival’s link with U.S.-based Chicanos who have transplanted the music across the border, particularly in L.A., through groups such as Quetzal and Conjunto Jardin.

Guitarist Zack de la Rocha, fiery ex-frontman of the influential rock group Rage Against the Machine, was spotted at opening night of the marathon three-day showcase. The singer casually chatted with fans and friends while keeping a watchful eye on the stage.

Known for his politically outspoken music, De la Rocha had arrived here after meeting up with a roving political protest led by Subcomandante Marcos, the masked revolutionary figure who fronts a dissident, indigenous movement in neighboring Chiapas.

It was during that Marcos rally -- called “La Otra Campana” (The Other Campaign), a swipe at this year’s presidential election -- that De la Rocha had spotted an especially powerful teenage singer from a relatively unknown rural group called Los Panaderos (The Bakers). The rocker declared the group’s lead singer “awesome.”

Such discoveries of unheralded talent -- like finding the great nameless bluesmen of the Mississippi Delta -- is part of the festival’s excitement. Several, such as Los Negritos and Sonex, stood out among this year’s record 80 acts and 800 musicians and orators, or decimistas, whose art often improvises about their lives and conditions in the countryside.

The musical gathering is just one part of a much larger and older civic festival surrounding worship of the Virgin of the Candelaria, a Catholic icon that serves as Tlacotalpan’s spiritual patron. The 10-day celebration is one of Mexico’s most important folkloric events, drawing fans from as far as Mexico City and easily swamping its handful of small hotels. Residents cheerfully rent out rooms in their brightly painted homes to accommodate the overflow of visitors.

This year, both the music and the religious rituals were overshadowed by the political flap involving the annual running of the bulls, a fiercely guarded tradition. Town lore has it that a lone bull once swam across the Papaloapan, climbed its banks into town and made its way to the cathedral to bow before the Virgin.

In its honor, bulls are now pulled by the snout across the water and released, wet and ornery, to run loose through the city’s brick streets. Few bulls make it to the altar, but in the past some have been knifed, lassoed and dragged in what critics here call a barbaric display of animal cruelty.

Tlacotalpans blame outsiders for the brutality, and many wear red headbands with black horns to identify with the animals. Others promote civility with the slogan, “I Take Care of the Bull” above a cartoon of a happy beast saying, “Asi, si voy” (“In That Case, I’ll Be There”).

Veracruz Gov. Fidel Herrera Beltran even spoke out against cruel practices, saying he would not attend if they continued. His statements sparked outrage from the townsfolk, who vow revenge at the polls.

The run went as planned, without injury to bulls or spectators, and Herrera made history by becoming the first governor to fail to show up for the fiesta, according to a spokesman for the state’s culture agency. Critics have since been mocking the absent governor with T-shirts carrying the sarcastic slogan, “Where’s the bull?”

Representatives said the governor’s position was deliberately distorted in this election year and noted that he never called for canceling the bull run itself, as rumor had it. But emotions ran so high over the controversy that an extra-heavy contingent of blue-uniformed police officers was deployed during the festival, crisscrossing the town on foot, in jeeps, in buses and on horseback.

There was no sense of unrest, however, and the roving officers simply added to the colorful, circus-like atmosphere as they mingled with marching brass bands, cowboys on horseback, kids screaming on carnival rides and hordes of peddlers.

Festivalgoers strolled city streets lined with vendors selling hot dogs, freshly baked bread and piles of trinkets and toys. In the main square, the fiesta creates a cacophony of incompatible sounds -- salsa, reggaeton, cumbia and mariachis, even the Eagles’ “Hotel California” -- blaring from restaurants, storefronts and sidewalk stands.

The son jarocho gathering takes place in a plaza just off the main square. Here, the only thing that matters is the music.

Festival rules are simple: Whoever wants to play gets to play. That democratic standard has led to extremely short 15-minute sets and a certain unruliness in the format. The problems recently prompted some musicians to start an alternative gathering.

Critics, including members of Mono Blanco, a veteran group that has been a catalyst for the music’s revival, claim the festival is too cluttered with amateurs and too rigid for a style of music driven by spontaneity. They want a shorter lineup, longer sets and less formal stage shows, allowing prime time for the exciting fandangos, during which groups assemble randomly and dancers take turns showing off their fancy footwork.

Los Panaderos, the group noticed by De la Rocha, played opening night at an alternative site a few blocks from the main stage. Later, however, the dissident party was effectively suspended when Alfredo Figueroa, a key festival organizer, showed up to perform with members of his group, Sisquisiri, and his nephews from another ensemble, Son Candela -- essentially commandeering their turf.

The white-haired musician later defended his actions, saying he felt compelled to protect the integrity of the festival and its resources, which almost entirely come from the state. Figueroa feared the alternative encounter would siphon money used to pay food and lodging for visiting musicians.

These controversies were largely ignored by the crowds. Take three preppie-looking teens from Jalapa, the state capital, a three-hour drive from here, who camped out in a miniature tent city that sprung up for the festival. Ages 14, 15 and 18, they had the look of middle-class kids on an adventure, but they had the enthusiasm of true music lovers.

Son jarocho has gotten better in the last couple of years, they agreed. They follow up-and-coming, more experimental bands, such as Sonex, which hails from their hometown. Although it’s jarocho heresy, the teens say they particularly like the fact that these groups play faster and use uncommon instruments, including harmonica.

“It sounds good,” says Andres Ortega. “Bien chido.”

That translates to the universal endorsement of youth: “Really cool.”