Violeta Parra was a Chilean singer and songwriter who was part of the nueva canción [new song] movement of Latin America, which produced folk-inspired and socially committed music which often blended autochthonous musical traditions with Spanish ones. Nueva canción artists collected songs in indigenous languages such as Aymara and Quechua and used indigenous instruments.
Parra worked directly with both male and female cantores [rural musicians] to compose, perform, and “[piece] together forgotten parts of songs”. Just as Guaman Poma was a thread between the Inka and the European, Violeta Parra was both the “bridge between the rural and the urban” and between Chile and the international stage, which was exposed to her and nueva canción upon her exile from Chile after the US-backed coup of September 11, 1973.
The creators of nueva canción decided at a Cuban Encuentro (meeting) that “song should play an important role in the liberation struggles against North American imperialism and against colonialism”. Consequently, it strived to differentiate itself from what its artists saw as commercialized, “tourist” folk and, in accordance with the diversity of cultural traditions across the Andes as described in the Nueva Corónica, was a movement “remarkable for its heterogeneity rather than homogeneity as regards both music and its use”. The unique power of nueva canción, which spanned multiple decades, national borders, and political movements, lay in its ability to express the multiplicity inherent in Latin American indigenous traditions.
All quotes in this post are sourced to La Nueva Canción Latinoamericana by Jan Fairley, from the Bulletin of Latin American Research (full citation).
Today on the bus from Manhattan-Cambridge;
gliding through the South Bronx
I see “I AM TROY DAVIS” in big, hot letters
stretching across an entire red-brick apartment complex,
like a prayer or a piece of mourning or an indictment
(probably all three)
—
And I think about how I’m not Troy Davis,
how I’m not Trayvon Martin,
and I am not Shaima Alawadi.
For I’m told my skin is innocent and pure,
that my eyes are righteous in their blueness,
even when they behold the red blood of a child,
a brother, a mother
—
I think that’s part of the point of the big, hot letters
stretching across an entire red-brick apartment complex.






