Buber’s Basque Mix

One of the most striking things for me when I first visited the Basque Country was the music. In jukeboxes in the bars where we played foosball, there were bands I had never heard. While the rest of the US was enraptured by Nirvana, I was discovering the Basque music scene. Negu Gorriak. Kortatu. Su Ta Gar. These bands, literally, rocked my world. Growing up, I had only known trikitixa and the other types of songs played at Basque dances. I’d never heard this modern, edgy and, frankly, angry music that seemed to surround me in the Basque Country.

To me, the music of the Basque County seemed to reflect some kind of odd dichotomy of the the place itself. On the one had, there was the folk music. The accordion, the melodic singing, the tambourine. The traditional old ways that defined the nostalgic view of the Basque Country. On the other, there was this rebellious punk and metal music. Loud guitars, angry voices, fast tempos. The modern music that represented the future, the way that the Basque Country didn’t stay static, but constantly evolved. There seemed to be little in between. (Of course, now I know there there is a whole spectrum, but back then it seemed so binary to me.) The music seemed to represent the country as a whole: urban versus rural, tradition versus modernization, folk versus punk. And, for someone who, at the time, really didn’t like the dancing and the folk elements so much, the modern punk and rock music really resonated. I came home with tapes of Negu Gorriak, Kortatu, and Su Ta Gar.

Bringing this kind of music home led to a weird connection with my dad. I’d “force” him to play bands like Negu Gorriak in the family car when we went places. My other music, the loud, obnoxious American bands, never bothered him much, probably because he never understood the words. With these bands, he understood the words, of course, at least most of them. He would give me looks, and say “what the hell is this?” I would enthusiastically respond “Basque music!” Later, to try to bridge the gap, I got him some Basque folk music, stuff he knew from his childhood but which he never listened to at home. It turned out that, to him, there was music from Bizkaia and there was everything else. Negu Gorriak, folk songs from Gipuzkoa, these might as well all been that obnoxious American stuff his kid listened to that just sounded like noise.

Later, I began appreciating some of the other forms of Basque music. I really got into txalaparta, it being so distinctive and primitive. I even like some of the more traditional music. Some of the songs by Oskorri really resonate. And, as demonstrated by my admittedly less than glamorous foray into singing (fortunately, my daughter more than salvages that performance), I like some of the folk songs that resonated with my dad. 

Once in a while, I discover a new band that is just great. A few years ago, while visiting my uncle and hanging out in his bar, I heard what I thought was an awesome song on the radio. After a little searching on the internet, I discovered Buitraker, who I think is simply amazing. They even have a song about me, of sorts (did you know that Burt and Ernie, in Spain, are Blas and Epi?) I even convinced a friend to stock her Spanish import store with a bunch of Basque music. Unfortunately, I think I’m the only one who liked the modern stuff, but I discovered Nok that way. 

All of this is to say that I’ve created a Youtube list of some of my favorite Basque music: Buber’s Basque Mix. It’s a mix of folk and modern, loud and melodic, traditional and not-so-much. Putting this together, I’ve discovered some new-to-me bands, such as Vendetta. While most people probably won’t like everything here, it’s all stuff I like and I hope that many of you will too.

Hell yeah! Hella Basque is Back!

Hella Basque is a blog by Anne-Marie, a young Basque woman who grew up in the Bay Area of San Francisco, California. Hella Basque started maybe five years ago and gave a youthful perspective on being Basque in the United States, a view that resonated with many readers. Anne-Marie, a veteran of the Basque festival circuit, shared views about being Basque-American that you simply couldn’t find anywhere else, even discussing issues such as how woman are treated at and experience those festivals. However, about three years ago, Anne-Marie took a break from the blogging world, deciding to take some time to travel and further her education. 

Now, she is back! Spurred on, in part, by her aita’s constant refrain “Right or wrong, do something,” Anne-Marie has rejoined the blogging world. Her first post, Hella Basque is Back, describes her hiatus and her reasons for coming back to revive her online presence, and most intriguingly, teases some big plans in the works.

Welcome back, Hella Basque! We missed your fresh voice and look forward to seeing the new and improved version!

Returning Home

My dad left the Basque Country for the United States when he was 18. As many others before, including three uncles who were already in the US, he was looking for a better life. After three years of sheepherding, he went back to the Basque Country with enough money to buy an apartment in Gernika. But, the opportunity arose again to return to the US and make some more money. During this second contract, fate took a different turn. He met my mom, got married, had three kids, and stayed the rest of his life in the US.

Though he spent the vast majority of his life in the US, his head and his heart were, it seemed to me, always in the Basque Country. Not necessarily the Basque Country of today, with its punk music, its metropolitan cities, and its graffiti seemingly everywhere, but of the “good old days” of life on the baserri, the dances in the plaza, and the sports in the fronton. That was his gold standard of life, and nothing in the US ever lived up to it. 

So, after he died, I really wanted to take something back to his home, back to the baserri. Something of him to take back home. A couple of weeks ago, we were able to do that.

My wife’s dad made a small wooden box that we filled with both small things of his, such as the belt buckle he often wore, as well as notes and recuerdos from us. My mom, my wife, my daughter, and I all put something in there. My uncle, my dad’s lone remaining brother, dug a hole under the apple tree they planted some 40 years ago, during Christmas, outside the family baserri. My daughter and I, surrounded by my uncle, my aunts, and numerous cousins, then buried the box with a few of our thoughts and memories under that tree. Returning something of my dad back to his home.

My own contribution was a little story about what I remember most about growing up and being with my dad:

Ropes
Blas Pedro Uberuaga

I pick the rope off the ground, gripping it tightly in my hand.

I climbed a lot of these ropes when I was a kid. They held the haystacks together on dad’s truck. Sometimes, I climbed them just for fun, when his truck, parked on the street, loomed over the house, over the neighborhood. My short legs stretched and searched for the footholes that dad and his partners left in the stack. Reaching over the top was always the scariest bit, but, as I got older, that got easier too. We used to climb up and jump from the stack on one trailer to the other. I remember falling once, but now it seems like it would have been so high off the ground. Maybe it wasn’t me, maybe it was one of my brothers. Or maybe it was a figment of my imagination. I can’t remember.

When I went with dad on his runs, it was my job to climb up and unhook the come-along rope puller. After I freed the ropes, I’d either climb down the front, where I could get my feet on the wall separating the first trailer and the cab, or wait until dad unloaded enough hay for me to climb down.

I wrap the rope around my hand. With the five other men, I lift the coffin off the ground.

When I was a kid, dad and his partners loaded and unloaded the truck by hand, but when I got older, dad got a tractor and was able to load and unload by himself. I would still go with him sometimes, mostly to untie the ropes and give him some company. I no longer needed to climb those ropes, but, once in awhile, I still did. Most of the time, though, I would sit on the end of the hay grapple and he would lift me up to the top of the stack. Once I untied one trailer, he would  carry me over to the other. I’d untie that one and then he would lift me down and I would collect the ropes. Dad taught me how to weave the rope between my arms, in a figure eight, to bundle them up.

Once, during Thanksgiving break, or maybe even on Thanksgiving Day itself, we were driving along the highway when the truck got sluggish. It was a cold morning, somewhere below zero. In later years, dad would say it was minus forty. Anyways, he pulled over and found that the diesel in the lines had gelled up, it was so cold. He got out his lighter and heated the metal diesel line by hand. That was enough to get the diesel flowing and we got going again.

The six of us carry the coffin over to the grave and then gently lower it into the hole.

Going with dad on his hay runs was really the only time we ever had time, just the two of us. We never talked much, we would just drive down the freeway or along some remote dirt road, sitting high off the ground, watching the scenery pass by. Dad could navigate his truck along the narrowest mountain passes. We had our stash of soda and sandwiches. I would drink my Mountain Dew while dad smoked his cigarettes, and we would listen to the chatter on the CB. The only real advice he ever gave me was to make sure that I worked in a place with air conditioning, so I didn’t have to work outside in the baking sun like a “jackass” like he did. Ironically, I can’t turn the air conditioning off in my office and it is always too cold.

Once or twice, he let me drive his truck. I never drove as much as my brothers. I’m not sure if dad didn’t think I was very good at it or didn’t have much interest. The truth was that I really wanted to learn to drive his truck, but I never really let him know.

“Goodbye, dad,” I whisper. I drop the rope and watch as it falls into the grave, hitting the lid of the coffin with a dull thud.

Abertzaleak: Basque Patriots

During the Christmas holiday, which we spent in and around Boise visiting grandparents, we made a stop at the Basque Museum and Cultural Center. After making our yearly pass through the gift shop, we took a stroll through the museum itself and found the newest exhibit on Basques in the military. The goal is to recognize Basques who have served, both in the United States military as well as in those in Europe, in various conflicts around the globe, to honor their service and sacrifice. They already have multiple exhibits and stories highlighting the service of various Basques.

After touring the museum, we stopped next door to see Patty Miller. As we talked more about the exhibit, its origins, and the efforts they have been taking to put it together, she said “hold on a minute” and grabbed a big binder of scanned records. You see, as part of this effort, they have been going around to the various government record centers in the surrounding areas and scanning records pertaining to the project. In this binder was the draft registration card of my great-grandfather, my namesake Blas Telleria! It was pretty awesome seeing his signature on this form — he certainly had better penmanship than I do! 

In one of those nice coincidences, just a few days later I saw a link on Facebook to a calendar of Basque Heroes of World War 2, a collection of 12 soldiers from both the US and Europe, summarizing their accomplishments during the war. The calendar was put together by Memoria Bizia, the Sancho de Beurko Elkartea, and Fighting Basques.

If you are interested in contributing, the Basque Museum and Cultural Center would love to hear from you. Let me turn it over to them for the details on how you can contribute:

Abertzaleak/Patriots: Sacrifice & Honor – A Story of Basques in the Military Near & Far

The Basque Museum & Cultural Center opened its newest exhibit in November, 2017, which features Basques who served or are serving in the United States, Basque, French, and/or Spanish military. Our hope is to recognize all submissions through an interactive portion of the exhibit that will be viewed by literally thousands of visitors and students who tour the Museum each year. The Basque Museum would like to be able to represent as many Basques from as many states, countries and branches of the service as possible.

If you are Basque or of Basque decent and have served or know of a relative who has served in the military, would you please take a few minutes to gather the information to contribute to this project? The Museum currently has information and photos on nearly 400 veterans or active servicemen and women.

Please include the following information:
Basque Veteran Submission: Full name of soldier, branch of military, rank if known, and time-period or conflict served. If you have a photo of the military personnel in uniform, that would be wonderful, or a civilian picture from that time-period.

PLEASE CONTACT Amanda Bielmann (208/343-2671); amandab@basquemuseum.eus to include information in this exhibit/project.

We would like to thank our generous sponsors for making this exhibit a reality:

 

The Good and the Bad about Basque Arboglyphs

A lot of the men that came to the United States were barely more than boys. Suddenly, they found themselves alone in the hills of west, tending herds of sheep with little more company than their dog. It’s no surprise, then, that many of them left their signature behind. Tagging the trees like urban kids do with their paint, they left behind their names, doodles of animals, and even drawings of people, some of them a little risqué. One of the last times my dad was in the hospital, my wife sketched a curvy outline on the white board in his room, asking him if he had ever drawn anything like that when he was out in hills. With a twinkle in his eye, he laughed, and said “Their boobs were bigger.”

Something I should have posted about a while ago, there has been a exhibit about these arboglyphs — or tree carvings — traveling around Nevada. The last day seems to have been yesterday, unfortunately (sometimes, real life gets in the way too much to keep things up to date). The exhibit, entitled “Mountain Picassos” and spearheaded by Jean and Phillip Earl, highlights the history of these carvings and provides history about the herders that carved them, was sponsored by the Nevada Arts Council and the Nevada Historical Society.

Here is a nice video that introduces these arboglyphs:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3HpRx8j1Dk

And, now the bad. 

Trees were never a great medium to preserve art. They die, they get cut down, they get burned down. And, it seems, climate change is exacerbating the problem. Climate-changed induced drought is causing trees to die faster. As detailed in this story by PRI, aspens are being hard hit by climate change, and at least one study says that half of the aspens will be gone by 2060. And, with them, so will go the history of the Basque sheepherder that they capture. This gives an even greater imperative to document these trees and their stories before they are gone forever.

A Basque in the French Revolution

In July, I was on a business trip in Versailles, France, and the hosts took us on a tour of the palace and the Jeu de Paume Room. Jeu de Paume is a game where players played a form of handball and tennis. The court at Versailles is famous because the French deputies of the Commoners met there on June 20, 1789 and made a vow:

“We swear never to separate and to meet wherever circumstances require until the kingdom’s Constitution is established and grounded on solid foundations.” — La Foule

And, thus, the French Revolution was born.

I’ve studied a bit about the French Revolution in various stages of my education. It should have been obvious, but the Basques were part of this tumultuous time. While wandering the Jeu de Paume Room, I saw the list of deputies and noticed an intriguing member:

(47) GARAT Dominique-Joseph (1749-1833)
Député de Bailliage d’USTARITZ

Of course, it only makes sense that there should have been some Basque representation at this meeting, but it isn’t something I’d ever come across. Who was this Dominique and what was role, if any, did he play in the Revolution?

As described by Wikipedia, Garat was born in Baiona in 1749. Both he and his brother, also named Dominique (and called the old) were elected to be representatives of Lapurdi. There were also representatives from Zuberoa (Uhart and Escuret-Laborde). Up to that point, the Basque region of France was still governed by the fueros or foral system that was also prevalent on the Spanish side. However, the French Revolution undid that. While both Garat brothers advocated for a Basque department, they were overwhelmed by the rest of the National Assembly to create a system in which local customs and peoples were ignored. While against this organization of France, Garat voted for it with the hopes of retaining some voice in the assembly. In the end, his efforts proved fruitless. Upon hearing of his and his brother’s votes to support the reorganization, the Biltzar of Lapurdi stripped the two brothers of their office. 

Garat continued to advocate for a Basque department, even lobbying Napoleon, arguing for the special history of the Basque people:

“The French Basques have acquired nor the customs of France, neither their language, while the Spanish Basques have not either acquired the Spanish customs, or their language. Either of them have kept being Basque (…) The Spanish Basques and the French Basques both think they all belong to the nobility, translating that idea to their customs and laws. That fact is astounding, for all the individuals of the seven provinces agree, acquiesce on that notion.” — Dominique Joseph Garat, Report to Napoleon Bonaparte, 1803 (taken from Wikipedia)

Garat rose to his position through several well received éloges on various topics that led to him being crowned by the Académie française multiple times. This led to him becoming a professor at Lycée. He was later named as minister of justice, in 1792, and the minister of the interior in 1793. He thus had an intimate knowledge of the government during one of the most dramatic periods in French history.

There is also more detail about the end of Basque home rule in France in this Wikipedia article.

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