Caracas Chronicles

I’ll be honest with you: when I wrote this post about the revolt’s soundtrack back in 2017, I never thought I would follow it up. It was September, just a couple of months after the infamous protests of that year ended on a sour, sudden note. 134 days left 163 deaths, hundreds of incarcerated protesters, and tons of uncertainty about where the opposition was headed. We could say the music was shut down by force.

A lot has happened over the last seven years. Political figures have emerged and retired, prisoners have been released and recaptured, sanctions have been imposed and lifted, and now there are over 7.7 million Venezuelans scattered across the globe. And just when we thought we didn’t have another election left in us, suddenly, we did. It didn’t take long before the canción protesta was reawakened in new formats.

Ten days before the country was to vote between Nicolás Maduro and Edmundo González (who ran in place of María Corina Machado – a story you should know by now) for president, Danny Ocean surprised everyone by releasing venequia., a 7-song conceptual EP that tells stories from the point of view of a young adult that never quite got to know the country our parents talk about. Disappointment, anger, immigration, and the longing for reunification serve as the overarching subjects for the lyrics. The National Anthem for long-distance couples, “Me rehúso”, also made an appearance, now in its acoustic format. He even went as far as to invite MCM herself to voice over an announcement that millions abroad long to hear: “Bienvenidos a Venezuela, bienvenidos a casa”.

The lead single “Por la Pequeña Venecia” sent a powerful message to chavismo: “yo te cambio la justicia por la paz” (I trade you justice for peace). The line clearly struck a chord among our fed up population, because it was quickly spread all over TikToks, stories, and feeds. The general public embraced the song and decided to extend this olive branch of turning a blind eye to 25 years of hatred and bloodshed, with the only request that they step out of power without making a fuss. It could have been an easy-ish ending to years of conflict.

And then 28J happened.

After massive repression changed the tune, the music followed suit.

If Danny Ocean was the voice of conciliation, a viral changa titled “MADURO RENUNCIA” by Pupu Records is way less subtle in its messaging. 

The lyrics forfeit poetry for straightforwardness, which is needed in these circumstances. There’s no pretty way of telling an authoritarian regime to go to hell, and people are allowed to be vulgar about it. If you’ve heard it, you know how it goes. It’s catchy, it’s cathartic, it’s art in a pure, unfiltered form, and I think that’s beautiful.

However, there are also messages in the silence. Social media users have denounced artists who normally have a lot to say and have gone radio silent since Sunday, some of which have performed in chavismo-backed events. Those who are not openly aligned with Maduro and friends have resorted to wishy-washy statements. “Tibios,” they call them, and rapper SCROP held no punches when it came to chastising them in a few bars for their feigned ignorance about the current political climate, even when they have benefitted from government money (remember Esequibo Fest?).

As days go by, we keep adding songs to our repertoire. A group of anonymous musicians recorded “El Ska de las Actas” to remind us of the most important question: “¿dónde coño están?”. 

The parranda sung by Betsayda Machado y La Parranda El Clavo in their 2018 Tiny Desk concert echoes the cry of those who mourn the 11 victims of the latest violent episodes perpetrated by state security forces. 

Canserbero, the deceased legend of rap, has also become part of the debate as tweets calling Maduro a fascist during the 2014 protests resurface. Let us not forget that he was an activist against police brutality, and he has “Stop” to show for it.

The current state of affairs leaves little to no room for self-expression without feeling like a target has been placed on our backs. Despite everything, music is—and always has been—there to say what we dare not speak. After all, there’s no shortage of indignation to keep the creative juices flowing in the studio, and even on the streets. Just ask the people who rewrote the lyrics to the classic Billo’s song “Los Cadetes”.

For now, Venezuela’s future remains a wildcard. Hopefully, there will be no need for part 3. Caracas en diciembre, maybe?