¿What is a Peña?
- Ian Rosenberg
- May 31
- 19 min read
Though Buenos Aires lives in Tango, the lifeblood of the rest of the country is something completely different. It's Folclore (pronounced folk-LOR-eh), and the venue in which Folclore comes alive is called a peña.
I had planned to do the majority of my Peña hopping in Salta, the northwestern city proclaimed to the the spiritual home of Folclore, though I ended up spending my time in some peñas prior to my time in Salta, as well as after my time there. I was lucky enough to not only attend, but to participate in five different peñas across the country, and each one provided a different experience to me, which I'd like to recount here.
By the end of my week of peña hopping, I became a local microcelebrity in the Argentine northwest, genuinely being recognized on the street by locals and domestic tourists alike for my seeming obsession with folclore and the peña culture in general.
I'd like to begin my story with a romantic description of a peña, as told through one of the most iconic folclore songs out there: Al Jardín de la República. The song recounts the bravery of the Tucumános—the people belonging to the province where Argentina's declaration of independence was written and delivered. It glorifies their dedication to their country and their vision of what could be a beautiful Argentina. But there's one line in there that I think says everything about a peña.
"Empanadas, y vino en jarra, una guitarra, bombo, y violín." This line is simply a list of things. Empanadas: the Argentine dumplings iconic as a food you can have at any time of day. Wine in a big jar, shared among all the patrons. A guitar and a violin. And a bombo: a native drum coopted into this fusion tradition of folclore. These five things—food, drink, and instruments—are all sung together in a single line. They don't succeed each other, they don't live independently. The atmosphere of a peña is a constant back and forth of servers, bringing dozens of empanadas at a time out to the patrons. At the same time, it's glasses of wine being filled up from a communal jar, and it's live music coming from every direction. A peña cannot be seen as a snapshot in time. It is definitionally a moving, living, breathing thing. And to think of a peña through just photos does not do justice to the life, to the energy that exists in one.
El Bodegón del Norte: Córdoba
Córdoba, Argentina's student capital and home to its own music genre, cuarteto, was the last place I was expecting to find a true, authentic peña.
I actually joined a music class at the university in Córdoba called "Música de Nuestra Tierra": Music from our Earth. It focused on pre-Columbian musical traditions of the Mapuche and Quechua people, whose rhythms and poetry form the basis for folclore as it exists nowadays in Argentina. I'll save the details of the class for another post, but I'd like to bring up, at least, the main exercise of the class. We wrote and performed coplas, which are poems, four lines of eight syllables, which have a dedicated rhythm and melodic contour. By this point in the trip, my Spanish was starting to get good, and I figured I should go ahead and write my coplas in Spanish. The professor recommended we write one about ourselves, and one about another type of music we studied, la vidala. These are the two that I wrote:
Yo soy Ian, me encanta / viajar por todo el mundo / y en algún lugar del mundo / música nos trae juntos
"I am Ian, and I love / to travel around the world. / And anywhere in the world / music brings us together.
La vidala es un misterio / llena del amor , tristezaam / el alma del país vive / en montañas y en canción
"Vidala is a mystery, / full of love and sadness. / The soul of our country lives / in mountains and in music."
The five old ladies in the class, as well as the professor, loved my poetry, and gave me an encouraging round of applause for my insight. But little would I realize that that insight would turn out to be nearly a forecast for the coming week.
That night, on my way back to my hostel, I walked by a portrait of Mercedes Sosa painted on the wall of this one bar. I couldn't resist peeking inside. Mercedes Sosa is a legend of Folclore. She has written or covered the entire genre, and her voice, full of soul, longing, pain, and love, is the undisputed sound of Folclore. Others can mimic her, but she is clearly the legend. I poked my head inside, and I saw that there was a live band playing. It was late, and I was tired, so I decided to visit the next night while waiting for the clubs to open.
So the next night comes, and as I had imagined, I spent between about 10 and 12 at the peña. The clubs tend to open around 12 or 12:30, and I wanted to live the real "student" life in Córdoba. I stood, had a glass of wine, and enjoyed the live music at the Bodegón for a while. It was great, of course. I didn't recognize too many of the songs, but it was festive, and felt grounded in this earth. Not the Earth in general, but the earth unique to Argentina. To its traditions, to its roots. Despite having spend so much time in peñas this last week, I still can't describe what it is that makes folclore so soulful, so indigenous sounding despite being accessible to our modern music tastes. And perhaps it's not something you can articulate, just something you can hear and understand in time and with experience. But whatever it was, I felt it.
But midnight came, the musicians packed down the stage, and I left to go stand in line next door at the most famous club in Córdoba. I had to wait about 45 minutes for them to open, and when they did, they said that I couldn't enter with my hoodie. Frustrated that I'd wasted so much time just for nothing, I decided spitefully to head back to my hostel. Passing, of course, El Bodegón del Norte. But as I passed, I noticed something was happening. I heard singing. Not the singing of the two men who performed, but of a woman. Soulful, longing, spiritual. Just like Sosa's voice. And it wasn't coming from the stage. It was coming from a table. The percussion wasn't a drum, it wasn't a bombo. It was the table. And yet, a guitar was still playing. I thought the guitars had been packed up an hour before. I peeked back in. And what I saw would take my frustration and turn it into pure bliss.
What had happened is that the peña opened up. This, as I'd read online, is truly what happens at a peña. The gap between musicians and audience dissolves. The gap between stage and seats disappears. The venue is permeated with music. All the while, trays of dozens of empanadas fly past every few minutes, and cups of wine are being constantly refilled. This. This is the "empanadas y vino en jarra, una guitarra, bombo, y violín." This is what the song is describing. It's describing a buzzing peña past 1 in the morning. After the official performance is over, after the wine has started to work its magic, and after those musical enough, formerly in the audience, have decided that it's now their turn to become the performance.
I have to say, I was nearly in tears. It was one of the most beautiful scenes I've ever seen. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. To be almost a "Live Photo" in my mind. I wasn't watching a performance. I wasn't just in a restaurant. I was in a living moment. The atmosphere wasn't about the presence of empanadas. It was the fact that they came and kept coming. It wasn't about there being someone singing. It was the excitement that anyone could pick up next and start with the next song. It wans't that someone was playing the drums, it was that I, banging on the table, became the drums. That was the beauty. That the music, the folclore, brought us together to create something special. Something that isn't replicated, that isn't rehearsed. Something larger than us. Larger than food, than drinks, and than music. The twenty or so of us mixed together in a chaotic, completely unpredictable way. Every song was performed as it had never been performed before. Unprofessionally, imperfectly, and yet, more artfully and beautifully than if it had been polished and perfected. If it had been sang to us instead of by us.
I had to jump in. I started by banging on tables, again, becoming the rhythm section. Then, I took one of the violins and started accompanying, and finally, I requested the guitar player to help me sing Al Jardín de la República. At the chorus, everyone sang together. As I said, I was nearly in tears by the beauty of the moment. I felt community, I felt love for the country. I felt their passion, their souls, their warmth and love open up and flourish. This peña wasn't about the show nor about the moment. It was about the love, about the passion, and about the community.
Needless to say, my first peña experience set a high bar. One that, perhaps, still is yet to be surpassed. And it all happened in the place I least expected: in Córdoba. Not in Salta's famous peñas, but in the heart of Argentina's young population, in the heart of other genres of music and other traditions. But here, where I least expected it, I found a spot where folclore ran through the peoples' veins.
Peña del Olivo: Salta
Clearly, after my experience in Córdoba, I was both excited and nervous for the following peñas. I was nervous because I just couldn't understand how a peña could top my first. How it could get even better. And what I found is that, though maybe objectively I had more fun at some peñas rather than others, I learned that, more importantly, the energy and the vibe at different peñas is different. They're curated differently, the crowd they attract is different. The night doesn't have to be identical to be fun, it just has to deliver something beautiful, communal, and heartfelt.
I visited Peña del Olivo in Salta on a Wednesday night. So, it probably wasn't the best, most thrilling night to be there. And, being a Wednesday, everyone who was there was a tourist. Salta's interesting, though, because though it's quite touristy, especially in its peña scene, most of its tourists are domestic. These are Argentines who love the folk traditions of their country. Who long for the northwest as the cradle of the republic, and go to pay homage. To participate in their own culture, to see what it is that makes their country special. I'd say it's akin to an American going to Yellowstone or to New York. They're traveling not to discover what our country has to offer—they know what we have already—but instead, to partake. To experience it.
Most of the people in the peña were from Argentina, then. There were some from Buenos Aires, Santa Fe, and Córdoba. I ordered empanadas, and the singular guitarist sang for about an hour, even taking some recommendations from the crowd.
Though this night was much chiller than my night in Córdoba, I began to put together the pieces of what made a peña a peña, besides, of course, the genre of music that's played. First, there's a lot of socialization going on. Not just between the audience members, but also between the musician(s) and the audience. In fact, I would say that it is the performer(s)'s job to moderate that connection, and I would see in the following days that all bands and all musicians performing would try their hardest to connect with the audience.
This blurred line between conversation and music is something I'd noticed a lot in Argentine music before heading down here. In some of the most famous tango recordings by Polaco Goyaneche (especially Balada para un Loco), you can hear an informal narration going on. Addressing the audience, setting the scene, and bringing the people together. Because of this guy's conversation, I was able to converse with some people from Buenos Aires who were curious about my trip, wondering what brought me here—why I chose Argentina.
This night, as I said, was quite chill. Just a few empanadas, a glass of torrontés, and a light sing along once or twice. But nothing too crazy, too overwhelming. It was a nice, calm way to spend the evening before an early wake up the next day.
Peña Vieja Estación
To bring in my birthday, I saw a show lasting from 10 pm to midnight at Peña Vieja Estación, on Calle Balcarce in Salta. This street is famous for its peñas, claiming to be the nightlife hub of the city. This is where the peñas are, where you can walk down the street and hear folclore emanating from dozens of different venues at once. At least that's what I heard.
I won't say that this characterization was entirely wrong, but I will say I was disappointed by how touristy it is. There's a lot of people standing on the street advertising their peña, they charge a pretty ridiculous cover charge for the music at these places, and the people, though mostly Argentine, are not locals from Salta. They too are tourists, just, again as the night before, domestic tourists.
I ended up sitting at a table with some of the only foreigners in the room, a couple about my age from Québec. We spoke mainly in French, but I really did struggle to understand their accent, especially over the loud music playing behind us.
This peña was certainly the most impressive. The music was the most curated, and the musicians were the most talented. It felt like a genuine performance. The music was excellent, and the vibe, though artificial, was exciting. The crowd was pumped. Just as the night before, the band actually was interested in getting to know where everyone was from. He went through the Argentine provinces, before expanding outwards to other countries. When he got to the US, I gave a huge roar, but it turned out, I was the only one roaring. Everyone looked at me, laughed a bit, before the musicians tried to speak to me in broken English. They asked me a bit about why I was here, again, and everyone was engaged with the conversation.
They kept on going, making little jokes with the audience, playing more music, and even inviting some dancing up at the front. The two dances that are most common in folclore are called Chacarera and Zamba. Both are courtship dances, keeping a distance between the couple. They're supposed to be modest and elegant. A chacarera involves snaps, almost flamenco-like in position and poise, while the couple elegantly dances around each other, spinning, trading places, and occasionally showing off fancy footwork and graceful dress twirling. A zamba (with no genetic similarity to Brazilian samba) is a sad, elegiac tune. Its energy is lower, it's typically in a longing, melancholic minor key, and it's marked by dancers twirling a white handkerchief in the air as they dance.
Everything here was performed, though. Though it was high quality, it lost that chaotic energy that the audience participation brings. It was a spectacle, certainly, but I missed being part of the music. I hated just watching, especially when I knew what could happen if the crowd is right.
Peña Ambrosía Bistro
I walked sadly down Calle Balcarce after midnight, starting my 23rd birthday on a bit of a downer. I was hoping to be part of something special, to be part of the music. Instead, I got a perfect tourist spectacle. I wanted something sloppy and messy that I could get in on.
As I reached the end of Balcarce, almost reaching the downtown blocks of the city, I heard live music emanating from this one peña. Peeking my head in, I saw a group of people dressed in Andean clothing all dancing chacarera on the floor. My lips perked into a smile immediately. I ran inside, grabbing a table as quickly as possible and ordering myself another glass of torrontés and flan as a birthday treat.
Quickly, the people dancing saw the energy in my eyes and ran to my table to invite me to dance. Though I didn't know how to dance chacarera, I had seen enough to try it out. Sure I made mistakes, but I think that a peña is less about the perfection, and more about the energy. What mattered to them is that I tried.
The musicians, being peña musicians, asked me where I was from and what my name was. And, they asked me how old I was. So, of course, I pulled out the birthday card and the whole peña went wild. It turns out that it was also someone else's birthday and they had a cake for her. They eagerly cut me a slice, sang happy birthday to me, and had me up to the dance floor where they all circled around me, taking turns dancing zambas and chacareras with me until the peña closed its doors.
There also came a time of the night where the band invited us all to share coplas. I rushed up to the microphone to share the ones I'd written in Córdoba at the class. The speaking was fast paced, and everyone commented on the beauty of everyone's coplas after reading. It was really a communal experience, each sharing poetry about things that mattered to us and that we found appropriate for the moment.
Though Ambrosía Bistro isn't every tourist's number 1 "must visit" peña, with its rough edges and small size, this is way more what I was expecting. Folk music, and folclore in particular, isn't meant to be observed. It's meant to be lived, and being in the center of a dance circle at 2 am while several salteñas take turns dancing with me truly brought the peña dream to life.
La Casona del Molino
This is the holy grail of peñas. It's less participatory than some other peñas, and less polished than some of the main ones on Balcarce, this peña is still something amazingly special.
It's actually some pretty good luck that I could get here in the first place. This place is huge—there's several hundred people there on any given night—but still, they sell out. I tried to get a reservation four days in advance, and they were already sold out. There is an option to get there early and wait in line, but I'd heard that the line gets very long very early, and even if you're in line, there's no guarantee you get in before 1 or 2 am.
The Casona is a special place. Unlike any other peña around. It's located in one massive house, with rooms and courtyards sprawling in every direction. Its walls are all shades of pastel, and the dark wooden framing of the house is outwardly visible. It's rustic, unapologetically so. Outside, between the main music rooms, the courtyard hosts the barbecue and the oven to cook empanadas.
I
n each room, at a few tables, will sit a group of musicians. In each room, the groups trade off every other song or so, but there's no doors between rooms. Therefore, you can hear music from the neighboring rooms as well. This creates a one-of-a-kind atmosphere. Despite there being up to 400 other folclore lovers in this venue, you feel instantly connected to those around you. The people in your immediate bubble are banging on tables, snapping, singing, or maybe even dancing chacarera or zamba to the group that's nearby. But in the distance, you hear others dancing and clapping to their own music. It simultaneously links you to those within your bubble, and the bubbles all connect together, forming a single, coherent musical identity. Though everyone's experience is different, though everyone's surroundings and music varies, everyone is connected through this sprawling root system, touching every chair at the venue.
This is where the "northwestern micro-celebrity" arc started for me. I was one of the first people into the casona, given my reservation, and I sat down at a table for one in one of the back rooms of the casona. Next to me were two people—a white-looking guy and a Quechua girl, dressed in a clearly Quechua dress with a hat and a traditional overcoat. As soon as they sat down, they spoke to me. In English. I was, at first, offended, wondering if I really stuck out as so much of a Yankee that they figured there was no way that I spoke Spanish. But what they said surprised me: "you're the one from Michigan, right?" I nodded, shocked, and they informed me that they'd seen me the night before at Vieja Estación!
They invited me over to their table, and we spent much of the night just talking. They're both kinesiologists, and there was a conference in Salta this weekend. So the one that looked more Quechua is from Salta, and the other is from Buenos Aires, just in for the weekend. They've overlapped at a few other conferences in the past and have become friends just from this. We talked about my trip, their work, and about the lovely spirit of this country. All the while, as we talked, the bands at the different tables took turns playing their songs.
Peñas typically also have a parrilla—a grill—and a horno—an oven for empanadas. Do not worry, I ordered myself a nice birthday steak from the parrilla!
The atmosphere was perfect. The energy was a lot lower than most of the other peña nights I'd spent, but I think that was good. I'd started to lose some energy by this point, and a nice, heartwarming, low-energy night filled with music and conversation was exactly what I was in the mood for.
Peña Munay: Tilcara
After my birthday, I hopped on a morning bus into the province of Jujuy: Argentina's beautiful black sheep province. It's most native than the rest. It's high altitude, deeply traditional, and its gorges and mountains make ever even glancing at your phone feel like a waste.
I stayed in Tilcara, a beautiful town in the Quebrada de Humahuaca (Humahuaca Gorge, named after its main town). The Quebrada is Jujuy's main tourist corridor, and frankly, towns here either are so fiercely local and family-oriented that it's impossible to meet anyone, or are so outwardly touristy that the only people you'll meet are vendors and other tourists. And yet, here, I once again got recognized! Some people who were in Ambrosía Bistro back in Salta ran into me in the street, greeted me by name despite the fact that I didn't even know who they were... We went our separate ways, but at this point, I was starting to understand that I was genuinely forging into Argentine spaces in a memorable, bizarre way that most international tourists just don't.
Given its remoteness and isolation, the culture in Jujuy is different from other places I'd visited. It was less cosmopolitan, more inward. But surely, I knew I was going to find a peña. And that was Peña Munay, right off of Tilcara's main square.
I may have found a touristy peña—I'm not sure anyone in there was from Jujuy—but yet again, I managed to be the only non-Argentine or non-Brazilian in the room, after the typical round of introductions. Though I recognized nearly every song they played by this point, but they sounded different. Instead of a violin, they had three other instruments. One guy played this tiny guitar with doubled strings, and another alternated between the panpipes (antara) and a flute (quena). It gave the music a different feel. Instead of feeling hearty and full, it felt remote, high-altitude, and indigenous. These are the same songs I'd been hearing for a week at this point, but their mood, their atmosphere had been completely changed.
The band went around the room asking everyone if they can sing. Most people gave a flat out no, but I hinted that, yeah, I can sing a bit. A few songs later, they decided to do a cover of Imagine by John Lennon for their "foreign audience." Though I sang along, and a few people motioned for me to go up and sing, I completely refused. After Imagine, they asked me if I wanted to come up. And this time, I hopped right up and confidently made my way to the front. They asked me what I wanted to sing, to which I answered with a loud and proud ¡Viva Jujuy! This song is a regional anthem, singing praise to the people, the landscapes, and the traditions of Jujuy. Though there weren't many jujueños in the bar, upon announcing my choice through the microphone, the entire peña let out, first, a gasp, followed by a thunderous applause. The band members, expecting me to say some American pop song, were audibly taken aback, before their faces lit up. With my hands visibly shaking from excitement and nerves, we began.
I sang to the Quebrada, to the painted hills, to the traditions of the jujueño people, just as the lyrics say. And when the chorus comes in, with a flowing string of "lailailailailai's," the entire peña joined along, singing together, singing loud and proud. Not that any of us, per se, are from the region, but because we all understand its beauty. We all get why we are here and what is special about this tiny corner of the earth.
Naturally, having never heard a Yankee sing Folclore before, they demanded an encore. So, I pulled out my old favorite. The song that started it all, the song that kicked off my love for peñas, Al Jardín de la República. This isn't just a regional anthem. This is a national anthem. It sings praise to brave Tucumános, who, unlike the rest of the country, stood up against the Spanish and declared independence. This province, just a few hours away by bus, is indeed the garden of the republic. And every Argentine knows that. Again, I sang the verse, while the audience banged on their tables and clapped along. And at the chorus, everyone joined in, belting out the lyrics "for the others, no, for the north, yes!" Applauding the Tucumános from two hundred years ago for their courage and patriotism.
The applause, frankly, rivaled that which I received from all of Hill Auditorium after my concerto performance. But I think I know why. For them, I wasn't just a foreigner coming to sit and observe a peña. I was someone who'd invested time and effort into learning these hymns. To understanding the soul of Argentina. Someone who can pick an appropriate folclore song that fits the vibe, the location, and the energy of a moment. The applause I got was as much about me as it was about the entire folclore tradition and its various incarnations across the country. It was an applause to patriotism, to tradition, and to community.
I took a seat after my encore, basking in my glory, hand still trembling from adrenaline. The night continued onwards, I slipped another few bucks to the band as a tip, and the energy gradually died down, little by little, as flashy chacareras gave way to slower zambas. Every table on their way out gave me a pat on the back, or a kiss on the cheek (a common greeting here in Argentina), a handshake or a congratulations.
I couldn't help but think back to my two coplas I wrote eight days earlier, at that class in Córdoba, before even my first night at a peña.
"I am Ian, and I love / to travel around the world. / And anywhere in the world / music brings us together."
"Vidala is a mystery, / full of love and sadness. / The soul of our country lives / in mountains and in music."
These lines were, unknowingly, a prognosis for what I would experience over my week exploring peñas. I met friends, I had deep conversations, I connected an audience of Argentines from all parts of the country, from Ushuaia to Missiones, from Santa Fe to Jujuy, into singing one song all together. Here I was, traveling around the world, and the one thing I found that would undoubtedly make a night enjoyable, that would undoubtably bring an audience together, was music.
And as everyone walked out, saying bye to me with a kiss on the cheek or a pat on the back, I felt love. I felt like I'd done something meaningful, impacted the world in a positive way. But as the crowd thinned, and 1 AM grew nearer, the sadness started to kick in too. I was already taking in the end of my peña experience. Saying goodbye to this thing that had brought me so much joy, so much love. And as I was taking it in, hearing the panpipes and flute, I couldn't help but remember that I was in the mountains. That this, in music, and in mountains, is where the soul of Argentina lived.
I, unknowingly, wrote the perfect coplas.
So, what is a peña?
The five peñas I visited were all so different. Some were intensely local, others were outwardly touristy. Some were spectacles and others were intimately collaborative, sloppy in their music and footwork. But what, in my mind, makes a peña are exactly the three lyrics I've been quoting this whole time.
My two coplas accidentally addressed the exact meaning of a peña, of folclore removed from a specific coordinate and placed in its most abstract sense. A peña brings people together through their adoration for their country. Through song, through praise. Through love and through sadness. It does it in the plains of Córdoba, but it always harkens back to the northwest, to the mountains and to the stunning landscapes of Salta and Jujuy. After all, El Bodegón del Norte wasn't called that, nor was it decorated with cactuses and indigenous decoration for no reason.
But also, that one line from Al Jardín de la Republica describes that fluid video of what a peña is like. It's the dozens of empanadas passing by on trays, the jars of wine constantly being refilled. It's the conversations, the drums, the violins, the guitars, the drumming on tables, and the friendships.
A peña is about community. It's about love, and it's about celebrating Argentina.
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