In that fandango, no shoes, no essence...
Felix Machucho: I have an uncle named Altanasio Teoba Dominguez. He played the jarana, composed verses and decimas. He was a poet and sang the decima with music. An artist is good because of his echo.
Maria Asunción Baxin: When I was a girl, only the rich had shoes. The poor couldn't afford them and danced barefoot on the 'tarina.' Back then there was an appreciation of the music together with what the feet were saying.
Feliciano Escribano: I have verses for confronting the other singers; it's just that when I learned there was a lot of the old singers of verses. I learned how to sing verses from a poet. I would buy what were called a 'chain of verses' from him. I work selling oranges in Santiago. All I take are a thousand and I go from house to house with a cart.
Leoncia Teguna: I can't remember what year I was born. Last year I turned eighty. Eighty years old and I don't have a single enemy, not at all.
Salvador Tome: Singing the fandangos used to be dangerous and it still is in those places down by the Sehualca. It's dangerous when someone who doesn't like you hears you singing well. It's certain that there will be bullets, machetazos, or a knifing.
Bertha Llanos: In the present day, words have changed a lot because there is so much education. People used to speak materially, but now things are different.
From Alex Dempster's narrative of Son Jarocho players at the Mexic-Art Museum, Austin.