Spreading the Chicha gospel

Transplanted Parisian brings Peru's back street rhythms to world's front stage.

from the September 26, 2008 edition

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In Peru, Chicha's history is storied, and politically charged. By the end of the 1960s, rock had spread outward from Nashville and London, from New York and Los Angeles, and spilled into southern and eastern markets. The villages of the Amazon were not immune: a handful of musicians there began stitching distorted guitar riffs over the polyrhythmic instrumentations of their favorite ballads. The music – lilting, elastic, and sonorous – was quickly scooped up by Peru's working classes and became a soundtrack of sorts in the sprawling ghettos that surround Lima.

"Most popular music starts in the slums, as despised brothel music," Conan said, pointing to the so-called "race records" of the early 20th century. "It's the same for Chicha – it's dance hall stuff. You hear it on the radio, but even the word itself, 'Chicha,' is a pejorative description of someone who's a hustler. Chicha is completely despised by middle-class people."

When word caught on in Peru that some French guy was pushing these slum tunes on American and European audiences, Peruvian journalists began phoning Conan's Brooklyn apartment, begging to know what he was thinking. "At first, it was a novelty sort of thing. They were puzzled," Conan said. "Here's a gringo – and a French gringo on top of that – playing Chicha? But they got over it pretty quickly. The fact that a foreigner likes the music makes it palatable to the middle class. And French," he laughs, "is classy."

Conan's proselytizing efforts have been met with success in South America, where a younger generation of Peruvians are "starting to dig the old stuff," Conan said. Chicha is gradually seeping into mainstream culture, via television, the Internet, and compilations such as the "Roots" disc released by Barbès.

Last week, between sets at a Chicha Libre concert, Joshua Camp, who plays electrovox in the band, said that he's been surprised at how quickly New York audiences, too, snap up on the Chicha sound. "It's a midway point," he explained, between what one hears growing up in suburban America and a more exotic low-end thump. He pointed to the backroom of Barbès, where moments before, a crowd of Brooklynites – and a handful of Peruvian émigrés – had jostled for a view of the upright bass, the electric guitar, the two drum kits. "Yeah, we get detractors," Mr. Camp said. "There are musical purists out there who see that none of us are from Peru. But that kind of purity doesn't interest me. And did you see it out there? For the vast majority of the crowd, it's a universal grin. That earthy rhythm – it's so easy to get your head around."

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