Alberto Podestá: Heart to heart

Interview by Ute Neumaier, Buenos Aires, published in the German magazine Tangodanza 39, July 2009

Alberto Podestá, legendary singer for Carlos Di Sarli and many other well-known orchestras, is sitting with me at the famous Bar Cao, in Balvanera. The Cao brothers began their business around 100 years ago, initially as a grocery store; today it is among the notable bars of Buenos Aires, living testament to the Porteño tradition of getting together in bars to chat and to resolve all of life’s problems. These days in the notable bars of the city, talks, lectures and concerts are given. Around us are the clamour and activity so typical of Buenos Aires: loud voices and today’s stories combine with the stories of yesterday. The Bar Cao contains an enormous wooden counter containing numerous drawers and trays from which foodstuffs were once sold, and the wooden floor creaks with people’s footsteps. Many years ago, Alberto sang in this bar. Now he watches me with curiosity, his gaze sincere and open. It seems that our talk makes him happy.

Thank you for coming, Alberto. I’ve heard that in the afternoons you’re always in the bar Ba y Ben. Why do you spend your afternoons there?

First of all, I’m very happy to be here with you. Yes, it’s true that I’m at Ba y Ben nearly every day. The café is a meeting place for musicians, because it’s right opposite the Actor’s Association.

When did you begin to sing, and how did it come about?

I was born in September 1924, in San Juan. My father died when I was very young so my elder brother and I went out to work when we were still little, to help our mother with her five children. I went to school only to sixth grade. In truth, I was never a great student, but at school, I took my first steps as a singer, in the school choir. I fell in love with tango when I was still very young. Carlos Gardel was my idol, my teacher, and my passion. I listened to him, imitated him, and that way I learned from him without ever knowing him in person. For this reason, in my early days as a singer, I was nicknamed Gardelito. He gave a concert in San Juan in 1933 and I went along accompanied by my uncle. It was the first time I heard him; I was nine years old. When he sang he had so much personality, and he expressed feelings like no one else. When I went to Buenos Aires, I already knew every one of his songs by heart. Every one.

How did you learn to sing?

I was self-taught. I listened to the tangos so many times I ended up learning them. In those days, I was already singing at the carnival dances. People liked my voice, and they encouraged me to keep singing. I received a great deal of support on my path as a singer. It was always my desire to be able to give back what I received: not just to be a good singer, but also an exemplary person who honoured his country.

What brought you to Buenos Aires?

When I was 14 years old, Hugo de Carril went to San Juan. He heard me sing and encouraged me to come to Buenos Aires, promising he would help me. When at last I moved to the capital along with my brother, in 1939, he kept his promise. He was a wonderful person and he put me in touch with many well-known people from the world of tango. I spent my first months in Buenos Aires going from one audition to the next. I’d already acquired an extensive repertoire when I was in San Juan; I knew tangos by Armando Pontier, Mariano Mores, Lucio De Mare… with all of which, I was well prepared. I lived in a boarding house for students in the central city, sharing the room with my brother and two engineering students.

How did you get your first contract with an orchestra?

Through contacts of Hugo de Carril’s, I met Roberto Caló, who introduced me to his brother Miguel, who was looking for a singer because Mario Pomar had left. I was lucky and they contracted me. I met all the big-name musicians and they introduced me to two men who would become great friends and who accompanied me for many years: Armando Pontier and Enrique Mario Francini. With Miguel Caló we performed in the cabaret Singapur, on the corner of Montevideo Street and Corrientes Avenue. I was still underage and so, officially, shouldn’t have been on stage. They hid me whenever the inspectors turned up.

You didn’t feel lost in Buenos Aires?

No, not for a second. I loved Buenos Aires from the very beginning. But it has to be said, I was with my brother. I was happy, and full of pride and enthusiasm: I could earn money, sing, and help my family. What more could I ask? In 1944, there was a large earthquake in San Juan. I had savings, which I used to bring my family to Buenos Aires. I left the boarding house, moving with my mother and my five brothers to Palermo, where we rented an apartment. So, at last, we were all together again.

When did you first record?

I was on trial initially with the orchestra of Miguel Caló, but after a while, all the musicians wanted me to stay. So I was 15 when I recorded for the first time, first Yo Soy el Tango and then Percal. In those days, recording was very different to how it’s done today, because the whole orchestra was present for the recording. It was a much nicer and more moving experience than it is today with all this cold technology that isolates the musicians from the singer. Before it was a get-together, we had fun, we chatted and it was a warm and happy meeting. Obviously, you sang much better in that environment.

How did your story progress?

I sang twice a day, once in the afternoon and again at night, seven days a week. I stayed with the orchestra of Miguel Caló for two years and began to take classes with a singing teacher called Eduardo Bonessi, with whom many singers like Alberto Martín and Hugo de Carril did vocal training. I was with him for six years.

How did you come to work with the Di Sarli orchestra?

One day Di Sarli came to find me and asked me if I wanted to join his orchestra. This was a key moment in my singing career. The Di Sarli orchestra was the one you heard every day on the radio programme El Mundo. It was a novel and exciting experience. And the Di Sarli orchestra was better known than Caló’s. Di Sarli also gave me my artistic name – my true surname, because it was my mother’s. Until then, when I sang I was Juan Carlos Morel. My first tango with Di Sarli was Al Compás del Corazón, then Nada, then Nido Gaucho and Capilla Blanca. Our recordings were all hits and continue to be important today. People still ask for them in the milongas. I stayed with Di Sarli for one year, then Pedro Laurenz contacted me, and I sang with his orchestra. But in 1947, I went back and stayed a couple of years with Di Sarli. In 1951, I started my career as a soloist on Radio Splendid and in the cabaret Maipú Pigall. I was also made an honourable member of the National Tango Academy of Argentina.

Why did you change from one orchestra to another?

That’s the way it was. The directors weren’t always easy personalities to work with; some were arrogant and didn’t treat us well. I never accepted bad treatment and preferred to change orchestra. I always left on good terms, never fighting with them, but with the argument that I was going in search of a new challenge. In those days, it was easy for singers: there were lots of orchestras and they often came looking for you offering a new proposal. We were very much sought-after.

What was your life like as a singer, your nightlife? There were many temptations weren’t there – women, alcohol…?

I was very young… and very distanced from all that. I was a young singer, well brought up, and well watched over by his mother. We were from the province, very modest, we weren’t Porteños. In Argentina, the difference between people in the provinces and people in the capital is very large. The Porteños were worldly, decadent, and into everything; we provincials were different. My life revolved around singing and my family. At 10 in the morning, I had to be at the radio station, and I didn’t get home until the early hours. My mother was always waiting, she never even gave me the key to the house, because she wanted to be sure I’d arrived safely home.

Which was the orchestra that most influenced you?

Di Sarli. It was an extraordinary orchestra, and the most well known in the dance halls. I had my biggest hits with Di Sarli; he was a genius on the piano. I can say that I was absolutely in love with that orchestra, and perhaps that’s why I stayed so long. But I never changed my singing style; I was always faithful to myself. Di Sarli was a very distinguished man, very correct, with very good manners and no vices. When we performed, we were all always very well dressed. I think we were the most elegant orchestra in Buenos Aires. We had a dress code: if we were performing in central Buenos Aires, we wore a tuxedo or a grey suit jacket with black trousers; in the province, we wore only suits.

How much did you earn?

With Caló I earned 250 pesos per month (c. US$65), which in those days seemed a lot to me. With Di Sarli I earned per performance what I’d earned per month with Caló. It was another dimension. But we didn’t just earn well; we were treated with respect. That was very important.

Nowadays you’re famous again. How does that feel?

I once said in an interview that actually I was discovered in my old age. With the milongas becoming fashionable again it’s become something novel. I had already been famous, like many other singers – Raul Berón, Argentino Ledesma, Jorge Valdez… But these days it’s different. There are such lovely things – this interview right now for instance. I have the impression I’m one of the singers most listened to abroad. Perhaps also because the orchestra of Di Sarli is so well known and those tangos are highly danceable.

These days, in general, you sing with your two guitarists. What is the difference between a show with orchestra and one with guitars?

Both are lovely, but with an orchestra you have a huge amount of music behind you – it’s an extraordinary and monumental experience. Singing with guitarists gives you more freedom, and you can sing whatever the audience desires. I can satisfy my fans by spontaneously singing whatever they ask me to.

Which have been your loveliest and saddest moments in tango?

There was an incident with Héctor Varela. Someone suggested me as a singer for his orchestra, and he said I was nothing anymore, that my voice had gone and that I’d already given everything I had. His words hurt me and saddened me. I’m not stupid and I know if I’m doing something well or badly, if my voice still has strength or not. I asked myself how someone could say that after I’d made so many recordings and had so much success. But you have to get over these things and move on. And that’s what I did.

The loveliest thing is the respect of the audience. It moves me greatly to know that my voice and my tangos are well liked as much by Argentines as by foreigners, and that both want to keep listening to me. This is worth more than all the money in the world. Sometimes in the milongas people come up to me and embrace me. They’re unforgettable moments for me.

The loveliest thing in my life is my family, of course,  – my wife, my children, and my grandchildren. I was married in 1967. My wife, Elsa, is not from the world of tango; we met in the neighborhood where I lived. My daughter Bettina Podestá also sings and has a beautiful voice, but now she’s a mother and she’s very busy with her husband and children.

What is the most important thing for a singer to sing well?

He must identify with the lyrics in such a way that he manages to become part of them. Often a tango touches our heart through the melody. But for a singer, it’s more than that. He must know whether the woman left the man, if someone has died, or was betrayed, or has killed someone… That’s the basis from which the singer can express what the writer was feeling. That’s why I used to listen to a tango over and over again, until not only the melody but also the lyrics were a part of me.

You also acted in the film Café de los Maestros. How did you find the experience of acting?

It was on one hand something very natural and on the other something incredible. It was moving and wonderful to reunite with all the musicians and friends of days gone by. When it was just we musicians together, sometimes we would shake our heads and someone would recall difficult times in their life and we wouldn’t be able to believe it – some had had periods where they didn’t even have a few pesos to catch the bus, and now! here they were performing on stage at the Colón Theatre! Life really is full of surprises.

Have you ever had a crisis and wanted to give away singing?

Yes, whenever I had a down time. In those periods I would tell myself I should stop singing and that it was time to do something new. But my fans wouldn’t accept it, and wouldn’t have it that Alberto Podestá should become a tango music collector or some such thing. They loved me as a singer, and they wanted me to continue. I’m grateful for their loyalty to me right through to the present time. Without it, my life wouldn’t have been the same.

What do you need to be able to sing your best?

The audience is the most important thing. If they stand and applaud, it lifts the years off you – all the illness and any pain. Suddenly you’re 20 years old again. Sometimes I’ll arrange with a milonga organizer to sing three tangos, but then the audience is so enthusiastic that I end up singing 10. A singer should learn two things in his life: if he sings one or two songs and the audience doesn’t react, he should leave the stage; but if the audience reacts with enthusiasm, he should give everything he has. You should never sing for money, because this comes through in your performance, people can feel it and it’s not a good feeling. In the same way, they feel it if you sing from the heart and with passion and they thank you for it through their applause. Passion is passed from heart to heart.

Translation: Antoinette Wilson