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| "The Patagonian Seaboards" 1872 |
Through the making of The Trackless Wild, a documentary film and album of the same name, this piece follows my own wanderings and wonderings with the Irish in Argentina. The film "The Trackless Wild, Song of A Wandering Tip" was completed in September 2025, the album "The Trackless Wild" was released in 2024.
saludos,
Charlie
GRAVITY & ACTION
I first started singing two old Irish-Argentine ballads a decade ago. The inexorable gravity that drew me to Argentina must have first rumbled into action back then. It wasn’t the first time I’d followed a song into strange territory, the last time I got that entangled was in Havana; at the first presentation of "A Captain Unafraid.” I introduced that documentary of mine to 400 curious Cubans on the anniversary of Captain “Dynamite” Johnny O’Brien’s death, invoking his ghost with his words: “the summons came and was responded to in the way that distinguishes that which is preordained.” I’d written a song about Johnny many years before, and ended up following his trail across Cuba, Cavan, and New York, drawn inexorably into the narrowing gyre of his story. Life, and so art and music, seems to come from a strange intersection of gravity and action. Summoning in song spirits long gone, past echoes bring future sounds.
Capilla del Señor is a small town 80 kms north of the city of Buenos Aires, where many Irish immigrants settled. “El Monitor,” printed there in 1872/73, is an important archive of the early history of the town. Another one of these ballads begins now two years have past and gone though they like centuries appear. I have been in the country two years as I write these words, closing in on past resonances. Echoes resound calling to remember. The author of five of these songs signed his name "A Wandering Tip." Delving into his words I sing his lost songs out again. Resurrecting these lyrics of old, he time travels to our timeline as I muse and sing my way into the past. One of his songs is called “The Trackless Wild.” Song, in some ways, is like prayer, in that, it often seems no-one is listening, but the declarations and incantations can bring us, draw us towards some unlikely, far flung, often beautiful destinations. Though I'm not one for prayer, I do sing. And it is important to wish, to envisage, to sing, to remember. Whether it was myself or the songs that took me to those wild places I guess I'll never know, a combination of both, I suppose. I've sung “The Trackless Wild” all around the pubs of Kerry, in bars in Tompkins Square, New York, out in Cuba. I've sung the words beautifully, badly, when no-one was listening and when you could hear a pin drop. I've sung drunk, sober, merry and sad. Its no stretch to say that song took me to where I now write these words, a few miles from el Rio de La Plata, where A Wandering Tip wrote...
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| Style frame from the animated segments of "The Trackless Wild" |
In my three sojourns in Buenos Aires I have, without meaning to, ended up staying in San Telmo. The oldest neighbourhood in the city has a formidable gravity. I met some fierce characters there, even Irish-Argentines amongst the melee. Veronica, one of the organisers of the Irish Symposium that I was booked to play at, happened to be living around the corner from us on my first stay in the city. What was once an African-Argentine neighbourhood is now thoroughly creolised, it holds the truth of what makes Argentina special-its thorough mix-up of many cultures. San Telmo is where two British invasions were repelled, and the locals poured boiling oil down on the invaders. Like many invasions in colonial times, it served to galvanise the people's sense of self, and from here emerged the nascent Argentine nation. Incidentally, some of the leaders of both the Spanish and British forces had Irish connections. General William Carr Beresford, the illegitimate son of the first marquess of Waterford, commanded the British forces, and the cavalry of the Spanish was commanded by Juan Martín de Pueyrredón y O'Dogan.
In the Centro Cultural Walsh, we saw a darker side to the bustling San Telmo. A previously amicable manager seemed to have taken a turn for the worse on a not known quantity of drugs. I was booked to play, and we had prepped the place a few weeks previously, but by the time the day rolled round the previous organisation, manager and plans had unravelled! Even so, I got to sing, but the atmosphere was charged, let's say. The Centre is named after famed Irish Argentine, Rodolfo Walsh, the founder of investigative journalism in Argentina. Rodolfo’s true and honest vision unfortunately collided with the worst days of the dictatorship and his words were finally silenced by machine gun fire, taking him to the next world. The Cultural Centre was adorned with images of another famous Irish-Argentine, Ché Guevara. The Irishness of both these figures though well attested would not be well known by Argentines, they are at the end of the day really just Argentine.
Though the stereotype of the Irish in Argentina, within the country, is of rich conservative landowners, digging a little deeper you will find people of all castes and creeds that have “Irish blood in their veins,” as Che’s father Ernesto Guevara Lynch once said of his son. In a way, you could say the spirit of the likes of Maria Elena Walsh, Ché Guevara Lynch and Rodolfo Walsh is a reaction to their conservative Irish upbringing. Certainly this is the case with Maria Elena and Rodolfo, they mention it in their writings. Indeed, Rodolfo’s last unpublished novel was to delve into his Irish-Argentine upbringing, unfortunately it disappeared when he died.
Atahualpa Yupanqui, champion of indigenous argentines, communist party member and icon of Argentine folk music, is another figure with an Irish strand to his roots. Even José Hernandez, one of the country's most celebrated writers, had an Irish antecedent. José’s great grandmother was one Rita O’Doghan. There are some families that even until today have married only amongst Irish, but it is very much the exception. That first green strand of Irish migration to the country has long melded into the rich tapestry of the Argentine nation. Irish were some of the first immigrants after the Spanish, and their minor wave reached the shore, ebbed and flowed away, leaving its mark, long before the deluge of Italians that flooded the country at the end of the 19th century.
After 1889, Irish migration to Argentina was uncommon in the country. This was in no small part due to what was politely called “the Dresden affair” where 2000 Irish immigrants in 1889 (having been promised all) were dumped on the pier of Buenos Aires to fend for themselves. This was the single largest group of immigrants to arrive into the city up until that point. Having written a song about The Dresden years before ever setting foot in Argentina, it was a ghostly experience to come upon the streets and names associated with the song, places like Paseo de Julio, Túcuman Street, and Balcarce. They say that the madames of the city's brothels pulled up in splendorous carriages and clothing to where the homeless were sheltered and ran off soon again with some young Irish girls in tow. This started a long tradition of Irish madames in the city, which it seems was a stereotype for a half century afterwards.
A few weeks later, after a concert in the wilds of General Las Heras, we returned late to Balcarce Street. Aidan Connolly, the brave Dublin fiddler, joined me on this recent music tour of the Pampa. After playing to a barn full of loud Irish descendants in the countryside, we wound down at the quiet Bar de Borges back in San Telmo. In an impromptu late night session we exchanged tango and Irish trad. with local musicians who go there to come down after more high octane gigs in the city. As we wound down our winding down, I approached the bar to pay, I thought the owner was offering us free drinks for playing, turns out he just said “moments like these are priceless!”
FOLLOWING PADDY O’ER THE PAMPA
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| during the last week of filming for "The Trackless Wild" |
All dotted around the countryside of Buenos Aires are towns with Irish descendants. In Mercedes, you will find the church of St. Patrick, where three Irish born priests still say mass. The school next door has a
mural to Padre Alfredo Kelly murdered at another St. Patrick’s church in the city of Buenos Aires in the dark days of the dictadura. In the same square as the school is the pub el Irlandés where I, the night before, had met up with an Irish born immigrant, John Kelly. Replete with boina vasca nd hundreds of heads of cattle, John keeps strong the tradition of the Irish Gaucho. Like A Wandering Tip in “The Trackless Wild”, he embraces Argentine traditions while never forgetting his homeland, skin browned by the southern cross’s sun, a sun that, though it burns, will never dull memories of home.
Scenes no southern cross can scorch in memories verdant plains,
Though bronzed may be the tenement where in such fancy reigns.
John runs a farm on the outskirts of the town on land leased from the Palatine religious order. A few weeks before my visit there I was reading about Sarmiento, champion of public education and Argentine president from 1868-74. Unfortunately, Sarmiento was no champion to the Irish, and once proclaimed “the Irish rabble, organised by their priests, are rabid drunkards.” Though I’m not at all religious, what a pleasure to revel in his words-myself and John had a proper Irish session at the pub el Irlandés surrounded by a cartel of priests. One member of the clergy was on banjo, another on bodhrán (the traditional Irish drum), more were watching on, myself and John ensconced between them all. Happily I sang out my Irish-Argentine songs surrounded by priests and pints!
The next day, with an existential hangover, I was brought on a tour of the church by the chaplain. The organ there is one the best in the country and Charly Garcia, the treasured Argentine rock icon, had performed an impromptu concert on it a few years back. The enthusiastic Chaplain next ushered us up to the bell tower, a step too far for my reeling head. I sat on the steps leading up to it, as he shouted with glee “¡viva San Patricio! ¡viva Irlanda!” and then rattled the hell out of the bells for the whole town to hear.
RESOUND BACK, SPRING FORWARD
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| during the filming of the song "Donovan's Mount" |
What do we know of this man who wrote the majority of the songs printed in “El Monitor de la Campaña?” From one of the lyrics “Donovan’s Mount,” we can safely say he was at one time a travelling teacher. A Wandering Tip was one of many Irish who were employed by landlords to instil learning from the old country into the children of the various Irish scattered throughout the Buenos Aires countryside. In Donovan’s Mount our author writes a song in praise of the Donovan family who have recently employed him.
I roved round the camp* till I met with an Irishman
Whose houses and lands give appearance of joy,
I upped and I asked if he wanted a pedagogue
tipped him the wink that I was the boy.
Hip hip horray, hooray for Donavan’s,
For racing and spreeing I’ve found out the fount.
* Camp is a peculiarly Irish-Porteño word. Campo being the Spanish for countryside and Porteño being a native of Buenos Aires.
In another song Tip talks of tending sheep-the original industry of the Irish on the pampa’s plains. The basques and Irish were among the first settlers to colonise the plains surrounding Buenos Aires. Whether Tip was invoking his compatriots in song or was a shepherd himself, I guess we’ll never know.
I am a jolly shepherd boy and live upon the plain
Oh! once I was may parents’ joy ‘ere first I crossed the main
And all the comfort I now seek is in the flowing glass
And stroll to town just once a week to court a Spanish lass.
Steer my bark, steer my bark o'er the wild pampa main
Oh ye winds be more calm there are shoals on the plain
Alone all alone on a rough rolling foam,
My bark it is launched and the pampa’s my home
In Castelli I got to know the only Irish-Argentines in the town quite well. Fernando Sheridan is a very well regarded vet and farmer of 76 years of age, his family background is all Irish, except for one of his grandparents who married into the indigenous Qom tribe. The Qom are the original inhabitants of that area and comprise around 30 percent of the population. Fernando’s grandfather was a famine era stowaway who lived in Capilla, the little town that A Wandering Tip called home.
Fernando told us in hushed tones how his grandad was, as Tip’s song goes, “part of that confederation of kings, queens and quakers who indulge in potation.” He’d been told he was a fiercely intelligent lad, not afraid of a fight. These were only stories passed down to him, he didn’t ever get to know him. I was wide eyed with wonder when I heard his grandad and A Wandering Tip lived in the same town 1200km to the South of us. I am certain they must have known each other. Tip being fond of his tipple too. Indeed he may have talked about Fernando’s granda in his song The Bright Morning Dew! Who knows. At any rate, there was a strange resonance in Fernando’s stories.
“Naw boys” says our host as the doctor he spied,
“This room as you all see is lengthwise and wide,
Come then, let us finish this high jubilee
With the game that comes after an Irishman’s spree.”
The words were scarce ended when a bottle flew by,
Struck my hat and made blacker Ned’s rolling dark eye!
Besides Castelli I spent 6 months in Córdoba. The city seemed a bit more stuck in the doldrums of conservatism and recession that the forever bustling and ever changing Buenos Aires. A strange fantasy I found scattered here and there across fancier parts of town was a kind of fetishisation of medieval architecture and music. Think misplaced turrets, faux renaissance fairs and craft beer. Irish traditional music was often lumped into this melee where aspirationalism and capitalism meet the fairies of trouble or fortune. I steered my own bark far from those strange shores. Thinking on it, it must be a type of classism and aspirationalism tying themselves to crooked histories of the old world. Elevating themselves in a lonely tower above the native landscapes. I spotted a whole castle in one part of Villa Allende on the outskirts of the city. Maybe too it is just old human love of fantasy and reshaping the past and molding of new tales. Like I so often do myself! Saying that, I was not going to be seen sipping craft beer or stroking fiddles at frolicking medieval fairs!
Amongst all these Irish-Argentine ballads I’ve also had the company of other songs. Myself and Spanish Literature professor Manuelita Palavecino took to translating the early 19th century ballad “The Land of the Blest” into Spanish. I’ve been singing that tale of an unfortunate voyage to the enchanted island of Hy Brasil throughout my stay in Argentina.
On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,
A shadowy land has appeared as they tell;
Some thought it a region of sunshine and rest
and they called it Hy Brasil the land of the blest.
Like the mythical island of Irish folklore, visions dissipate and only songs remain as imprints of lost islands and ideals. Songs, the sail me and A Wandering Tip pin to our masts, the force and inexorable wind that drives us forward. As Manuelita translates, I sing...
Ecos amigos velas de hogar y sal
En Ara está la vida y la libertad
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.
FREEDOM UNADORNED
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| from the poster for the film "The Trackless Wild" |
In the lyrics of The Trackless Wild much of the song is in praise and acknowledgement of the debt he owes his horse. He calls the horse a saino, which for many years I thought was a breed of horse, really it's just a colour. I learned this when I visited Capilla del Señor, the town where these songs were first printed. On the farm of Maria Julia Burgos, as the sun was coming down, I sang to a tired saino words of old.
At e’er as o'er the trackless wild my saino bounds along
My thoughts are of a pleasant land and of a gladsome throng
The horse seemed to enjoy my melody, closing his eyes peacefully letting the sounds go in and through him. Whether I sang for myself, the horse or a Wandering Tip, who knows? Through these incantations of Tip’s words, through his own hopes, our lives though separated by centuries undergo a strange melding. I echo his heartfelt sentiment in song. A strange synthesis of our own personal propaganda and heartfelt expression. What we are drawn to and what draws us to it, the ground we draw our inspiration from and the horse we ride upon. From Santa Rosa to Buenos Aires, and from Chaco to Cordoba I've sung “A Wandering Tip’s” song. Bringing the songs back to the museum where the printing press for “El Monitor de La Campaña” is housed, at a concert in the square outside, I sang for the descendants of those first Irish immigrants. I wondered while I sang if perhaps his great great grandchildren were quietly listening unbeknownst to me in the crowd. Or did it matter, is my act of making this personal pilgrimage praise enough?
Little reck I for them both my good steed and I,
Are sailing o’er the Pampa plain beneath his care on high
On my way to a concert in Santa Rosa, rattling through the pampa on the top of a bus I tumbled verses around in my heart and head. The moon peeks out from the curve of my guitar case and me and A Wandering Tip rumble into a strange new city. Repeating the lines in my head, I incant…
Freedom on her regal seat upon this ocean plain,
and should we e’re from her retreat we’d follow in her train.
I like to imagine what “A Wandering Tip” would have thought of this resurrection of his muse. Of the raising of his flag again, his prayer to let...
Freedom unadorned hold, fast my roving mind
and help me scarce lament the land and home I left behind.
