The Economist 14Mar2020

66 TheEconomistMarch 14th 2020

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s his presidentialcampaign reached

its climax in 1970, Salvador Allende ap-

peared at the Teatro Caupolicán in Santiago

beneath a banner that read: “There is no

revolution without music.” He was flanked

by some of the revered performers who in

the preceding years had thrust Chile’s mu-

sic onto the world stage. Among them was

Víctor Jara, a singer who would be tortured

and murdered soon after the coup that end-

ed Allende’s socialist administration in

1973. The ensuing dictatorship of General
      Augusto Pinochet lasted 17 years; but Jara’s
      music, and that of other artists who were
      censored, exiled or killed, lived on.
      As Chile is convulsed by protests
      against inequality and poor public ser-
      vices, politics and music, old and new, have
      again become entwined. On October 25th
      last year, when more than 1m people took to
      the streets of Santiago, guitarists mustered
      on the steps of the national library to play
      Jara’s ode to peace and freedom, “El dere-
      cho de vivir en paz” (“The right to live in
      peace”). In Plaza Italia crowds sang “El baile
      de los que sobran” (“The dance of those left
      over”), a protest anthem of 1986 by the band

Los Prisioneros. The song “reflects the pri-

mal discontent of a society whose rights

are not represented,” reckons Miguel Ta-

pia, the group’s drummer. Unfortunately,

he says, “its message still resonates.” Else-

where musicians serenaded the throng

from street corners and balconies.

In response to the looting and arson

that erupted alongside the protests, Presi-

dent Sebastián Piñera had earlier imposed

a curfew and deployed the armed forces to

restore order. But a familiar soundtrack

rang out even when the streets emptied. At

8pm each evening, when the curfew took

effect, demonstrators played “El derecho

de vivir en paz” in synchrony from their

apartments. A pianist’s rendition of “Gra-

cias a la vida” (“Thanks to life”), by the leg-

endary songwriter Violeta Parra, drifted

through the trees on one of Santiago’s wide,

lamplit avenues. And during the days,

crowds sang the refrain of “El pueblo unido

jamás será vencido” (“The people united

will never be defeated”) by Quilapayún, a

venerable folk group.

As the armed forces took over the coun-

try in 1973, this was the song broadcast on

the radio after Allende bade an emotional

farewell to the nation. It “immediately be-

came a symbol of the fight against the Pino-

chet dictatorship, and it has accompanied

many other struggles from the moment it

was conceived,” says Eduardo Carrasco,

one of Quilapayún’s founding members,

who is now 79. He recalls that it was bor-

rowed by opponents of Portugal’s authori-

tarian regime and of General Franco in

Spain; more recently it was adopted by ac-

tivists during the Arab spring and by the gi-

lets jaunesin France. The aloof elite that has

alienated many 21st-century Chileans is a

far cry from the monstrous rulers of the

1970s and 1980s; still, thinks Mr Carrasco,

“this song is as relevant now as it ever was.”

Another, more rudimentary kind of en-

semble has provided a backbeat to the

events. The collective bashing of sauce-

pans on balconies, a rowdy percussion

known as cacerolazo, is popular across

South America, from Buenos Aires to Cara-

cas. In Chile it emerged during the Allende

years: in 1971, during Fidel Castro’s visit to

the country, there was a “march of the emp-

ty pots” in protest at food shortages. The

ritual was a practical way to express dissent

Music and protest

The beat goes on

SANTIAGO

Demonstrators in Chile are looking to the past for their soundtrack

Books & arts

67 Amongthehungry

68 ColumMcCann’snewnovel

68 TracesoftheAnthropocene

69 Johnson: The language of policy

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