The EconomistMarch 14th 2020 751A
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
- 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 dissentMusic and protest
The beat goes on
SANTIAGO
Demonstrators in Chile are looking to the past for their soundtrack
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