On Music: Macedonio Alcalá October 11, 2022
Teatro Macedonio Alcalá is named for a poor alcoholic violinist, whose depressing masterpiece, a waltz called Dios Nunca Muere (God Never Dies), happens to be the Anthem of Oaxaca. Locals loved the song so much that they also named the city’s principal thoroughfare, Andador de Alcalá, after him, as well. Alcalá did not write the hit until his last year on earth, in 1869, when he was only 37 years old. Following his death, his pendejo brother tried to pass the waltz off as his own, but admirers of Macedonio’s bittersweet strings exposed the fraud.
When construction was completed in 1909, the theater was hailed as a marvelous cultural achievement of the Porfiriato, the 3-decade period under the reign of Porfirio Diaz, when European science and architecture was especially prized in Mexico. One glance at el Teatro confirms this—the domed metal roof, the cupric-green stone walls, the classical Corinthian columns, vaulted archways, white marble stairs, oro-gilded interior. On the ceiling of the foyer, half-naked angels dance in the clouds. Surrounded by five levels of ornate balconies, arranged in a horseshoe facing the stage, the acoustics within are of exquisite resonance. Someday I would like to do my Royal Albert Hall command performance here. Just as today, the show will be free.
The theatre originally opened as a casino, in perfect keeping with the mood of the country at that time. Porfirio was soon gone, and Emiliano Zapata was rallying the pueblos of Oaxaca for democratic agrarian justice. Zapata’s nemesis at the time was Venustiano Carranza, who would, in 1919, have Zapata assassinated. It was then, to say the least, a statement that the new theatre, on the corner of Independencia and Armenta y Lopez, was given the name Teatro Carranza. Zapata must have been livid. However, Macedonio Alcalá, humble composer of funeral marches, ultimately replaced the 44th Mexican President (1917-1920) on the marquee in the 1930’s.
Lights flicker. An enormous lead-glass chandelier hangs over the center of the audience. Oaxaca has not received a major earthquake since 2017, but I am not taking any chances—there is no way I am sitting through a Beethoven symphony under that thing. The lights fall, the ground stills.
A diminutive greying conductor wearing a black guayabera walks on stage to respectful applause. He shakes hands with the lead violinist, who does indeed bear an uncanny resemblance to young Macedonio Alcalá, and the two assume their positions. Then the maestro’s magic wand waves, and the orchestra commences to fill the room with Beethoven. Children dressed for school fidget in their seats beside attentive mothers. Someone’s phone rings. None of these distractions dampens the enthusiasm of the old conductor, who bobs and jerks his divining rod like a marionette.
After the show ends, the free music continues outside, although the harmonium-grinder wishes it were otherwise. His smiling partner charges at the unsuspecting with an outstretched officer’s cap, for a patriotic donation to “Cielito Lindo,” but the concert-goers have had enough music and push ahead without giving a peso to these musical relics. They have been churning out German-Mexican bandas-polkas for almost 150 years, beginning as the pop heard by the young violinist Alcalá and then becoming the songs of the Revolution and a national identity.
But there is still more music. When the symphony crowd disperses, and the harmonium grinds to a halt, an old woman can be heard humming something faintly across the street. She is crumpled against a wall in a soiled shawl, holding a plastic bowl for any passersby. The smiling man reaches into his officer’s cap and removes a coin, placing it in the lady’s bowl, under a beautiful little sky.
Muere el sol en los montes
Con la luz que agoniza
Pues la vida en su prisa
Nos conduce a morir
Pero no importa saber
Que voy a tener el mismo final
Porque me queda el consuelo
Que Dios nunca morirá.
The sun dies in the mountains
With the dying light
Well life in its rush
Leads us to die
But it doesn’t matter to know
That I will have the same end
Because I have the consolation
That god will never die.
God Never Dies, Macedonio Alcalá