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Now, at your age, I mean,

not that you're very old...

But how do you feel,
about the pressing time...

Because we're aware of...

Well, if I don't...

I've got two options.

If I don't play the bandoneon,
it means I can't catch sharks.

And vice versa.

I need tremendous strength
for both.

When I catch a shark,
I'm standing.

I can't have gallstones,

kidney problems
or back problems.

To play the bandoneon,
it's exactly the same.

How much does it weigh?

22 pounds.

But I lean over, I dance,
I move, I enjoy...

I stay there...

It's physical effort.

It is.

I sometimes lose four pounds,

just sweating, yes.

But it's total rapture.

You've never thought
of giving up the bandoneon?

You're crazy!

I'm just asking...

No, no way!

I play because
I feel capable of playing.

If I ever feel unable to play,
I don't know what I'll do.

Just composing
doesn't satisfy you?

No. I like to write
and play what I write.

That's my biggest
satisfaction...

The exhibition starts here.

We have access
through these stairs.

And here there are going
to be two projections of Astor

at different times.

The entrance is this one here.

You'll be greeted
by an image of the sea.

After that, we start
to go around the dock

that we've recreated,
and his passion, fishing,

and what the sea symbolizes.

You go into the room,

where all the original objects
will be displayed,

also recreated as holograms
- to be viewed through 3
- D glasses.

After that, we recreate a place

which is Astor Piazzolla's
personal archives.

And there will be objects,
films, photos,

videos, recordings playing.

The idea is to recreate
his personal world.

Very good, very nice.

Did you know that my old man
burned all his scores

at a barbecue?

In Punta del Este.

Nothing was left of it.

Nonets, quintets, octets.

But why the explosion?

Because my old man had a habit,
he used to tell me...

He always said,
"You don't need to look back,

everything you did yesterday
is shit.

Always look ahead."

Tear it up,

whatever you composed yesterday,
tear it up.

And that day, he burned it all.

Many people say
that what you do is not tango.

- Did you know that?
- How could I not know.

My dad and I caught sharks
together once.

It was in San Blas, in 1961.

I think what made my dad strong

was that problem he had
when he was little.

He tried to hide it,

but the problem in his leg
couldn't be hidden.

You could see his left leg
was strong

and his right leg
was very skinny.

He had a bit of a complex
about it.

Don't you dare call him
cripple, he'd tear you up.

He'd beat you up.

I imagine how they felt

when they saw their baby
with his foot like that.

His foot was twisted
and he walked on his ankle.

His foot had to be corrected
to a normal position.

When he was one year old,
he had seven surgeries.

And, in between surgeries,

several months using plaster.

It was terrible;

that's what made
Nonina and Nonino

decide not to have
more children.

They were afraid
they would all turn out badly.

That's why he's a spoiled
only child.

After those surgeries,
they went to New York.

That's how the story begins.

This reflects...

what I wanted
for many years.

Contracts in Italy, Spain,
France, the United States,

return to Venezuela, so much.

I'm going to have
to take years off

and start all over again.

In 1973,

my dad had a heart attack.

He got out
of the Bazterrica Clinic

and called me every night.

"Dani, it's Dad, what's up?

Want to come over for champagne
and listen to a bit of music?"

He had decided to go to hell
and live in Italy.

"I'd like to put together a band
and this and that.

What do you think?"

"Yeah, it would be great,
and why don't we..."

And that was the bond
I had with my dad.

He asks me to go to Italy;

he includes me
in the electronic octet.

And I played with him
for almost four years.

The worst thing anybody
could have said to my dad...

The only one who said something
horrible to him was me.

No insults or anything.

"You're going backwards."

Only those words

meant more than 10 years
of silence between us.

And Diana already had the idea

of writing something
about Astor.

Then, she told him.

My dad's first reaction was,

"Biographies are written
of the dead, not of the living.

I'm still alive."

I once lived in Mexico,

I was exiled in Mexico
for nine years.

He comes in to give a concert
and says,

"Do you want to write
about my life?"

And I said, "What?"
This man changed suddenly.

"Don't you dare?"

So every day, because
he was very disciplined,

after work at Televisa,
from 5:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m.,

we recorded tapes.

And we recorded his whole life.

Besides, I wanted to know

what he'd been like as a child,
as a teenager.

Well, no, I never had the guts
to listen to those cassettes.

I can't. I listen to Diana now,
and I start to cry.

Not for my old man,
but for my sister.

So, it was defying, right?

You were... Daniel too,
he was a good sidekick of mine.

You were a fan of my crazy ways,
I realized.

Right.

You were a little crazy as well,
so you liked the way I was.

You liked it,

you liked the fights that I had,
the music, and what not,

and you liked poetry,
you used to read a bit,

Mom painted...

I grew up with those things,
right?

I remember the fights
you used to have in the street,

when they looked at us...

Yes.

Once, a bus driver
looked funny at us,

you got down
and started to fight,

Daniel and I
threw stones at him...

- I beat him up...
- To distract him.

I beat him up...

And the guy
was screaming at us!

You always wanted to go back,
it was a challenge to you.

All the great composers
are from Manhattan,

from New York.

And my music,
fifty percent of it,

comes from living in New York.

My challenge in life,
my evolution in music...

In my blood, in my guts,
I've got New York inside of me.

- New York is my place.
- You lived there for 15 years.

But it's not that, Diana,

there's something
I can't explain.

It was 17 years,

14 as a boy
and three as an adult.

But...

Let's say
you were almost born there.

Always that very dark
neighborhood where we lived.

And it was
a very poor neighborhood.

To think my mom and dad
lived here.

They worked here.

And the sacrifice they made...

I grew up here...

Because...

It was a very poor
neighborhood, Diana.

My dad was part of a gang.

A group of guys.

All his friends were the worst.

My dad did that.

They lived fighting
in the streets,

that was their fun.

There were lots of gangsters.

Nonino had a bullet wound
in one arm.

And he showed that bullet wound
proudly.

Who was "Sacabutiello?"

Scabutiello,
he was my dad's boss,

a Sicilian gangster of course.

My dad worked for him
for 14 years.

As a barber?

In a barber shop

where they took bets
in the back room, and so on.

Shameful!

Nonino and Nonina
used to make whisky.

My grandmother had made
an alembic in the bathtub.

She distilled the whisky there
during Prohibition.

Then, into the sidecar
on the motorcycle,

they would put bottles
and bottles of whisky,

and then my dad
would sit there,

covered with a blanket.

And my grandparents
looking innocent,

waving to the policemen
on the way.

They never got caught.

They would go spend some time
with the cousins,

and they helped them.

Then, my cousins lived
on selling the whisky

Nonina made.

He is with the bandoneon.
It starts there, right?

Yes, yes. There.

And the famous shirt,

which is included
in his personal objects.

- Wow.
- All this is on loan from Laura.

And all this was going to be
for Pipi, I'm sure.

Does she also have
the aluminum record?

I haven't seen it.

Remind me later
to ask her for it.

It's the first record
of my old man,

playing a little polka.

Very basic, right?

Yes, but that doesn't matter,
it's useful.

The Argentine child prodigy.

Well, the idea
was to connect the photos

with different moments.

Look! The pipes!

These pipes, he collected them.

I imagine he had them
custom made.

The pipestand is missing,
with the Seven Deadly Sins.

Haven't you seen it?

No. No, we were working...

There he is, with the bandoneon.

How lovely!

My dad found it by chance
in a pawn shop

in the Jewish neighborhood
in New York.

He bought me the bandoneon
and brought it home for me.

And, for me, it was like
he brought me a fan,

I didn't know what it was.

My grandfather explains,

"It's a bandoneon,
the instrument they play

in that music
I listen to every night.

And you're going to learn
to play it," it was an order,

"and you're going to study
the bandoneon."

With my ears frozen
and sometimes crying with pain,

he took me to the Bronx

to study bandoneon
with Terig Tucci twice a week.

That's the sacrifice
my dad made.

I don't know, Diana,
if I'd do it now.

No, not really.

Because he believed in me.

But he believed in me
as if I were a genius.

I wasn't a genius.

He made me feel I was important.

So much so that he started
to write my life story.

When he was in the barber shop,
without clients,

he'd write the story of my life.

He got home at 8:15 p.m.,

and, before dinner,
my dad would sit down,

and ask me
to play the bandoneon.

And I'd start to play

and he thought
I was Johann Sebastian Bach.

He'd get excited, he'd go crazy.

I studied for him,
I went over the lesson,

showed him what I'd learned.

And then he would teach me
to box, he liked boxing a lot.

Because I had to defend myself.

It was useful
for having good fist fights.

All your life.

I'll never forget
the example my dad gave me,

"Never wait for somebody
to hit you, you hit first.

Always."

Once I hit, that's it.

- Sure.
- You're lost.

I know I'm nuts...

Nuts, nuts...

Don't you see the moon
rolling down Callao...

So "Ballad for a Madman"
starts The New Song?

Yes, totally.

Why do you think
so many people identify with it?

Did you play it
at the mental hospital?

Yes, that was afterwards.
It was like a therapy.

They sang "Ballad for a Madman"
in the mental hospital

and the Director asked us
to go and perform.

And we performed there
three times.

I think it was
the only country...

- How did they react?
- Amazingly, very moving.

I think it was one
of the nicest things I ever did.

Did they listen to you?

They listened, they cried,

they were moved,
they all sang together with us.

It was awesome.

We ate with them,

with some
of the more peaceful patients.

We were there three times.

I even met...

I had the honor of meeting
the famous Jacobo Fijman.

One of the crazy people?

The famous poet,
you don't know about him?

I don't.

- I'm surprised, Diana.
- I swear...

- How come?
- I never heard of him.

For God's sake!

I have a huge book of his work,
I wanted to make them music.

You'd like him,
it's also your way of writing.

Your way, the way
you were writing at one time.

No! He's a madman.

A passionate
and tormented writer.

He spent 24 years
in the mental hospital.

And he didn't want to leave,

"Nobody is waiting for me
outside."

He died there.

And I talked to him,
I wanted to meet him.

"Where is Jacobo Fijman?"

Poor guy, all dressed in rags.

He had ironed his suit
just because I was coming.

He was sitting at the table
and he told me,

"Do you love Bach?"

"Of course."

Then, he says,
"He who loves Bach loves death."

I started to study
classical music.

So I adapted the piano studies
to the bandoneon.

I played Bach, badly,
but I worked on it.

Until I found the best master,
somebody living next door.

My dad couldn't afford him.
How did he pay him?

Twice a week, with cannelloni,
ravioli or gnocchi,

because he was starving.

He started to teach me harmony.

I was starting to improve,

I listened to him
playing the piano

and I wanted to play
the bandoneon like he played.

Do you get it?

I stopped hanging out
on the streets.

My dad sculpted wood as a hobby

on weekends,
when he was off work,

he whittled gauchos
playing the bandoneon.

He made a big figure
and I took it to Gardel.

I didn't know Gardel, of course,
my dad didn't either.

He heard me speaking
in a poor Spanish.

But when I said I played
the bandoneon,

everything fell into place.

First, they called me up

because they needed a boy
to work on the film...

"The Day You Love Me."

But when it comes
to doing my duty,

I'm very strict, very strict.

"Very strict..."

- Do you know your part?
- Sure.

Let's go.

And, when Gardel found out
I played the bandoneon,

I went to the barbecue
he offered

for Uruguayans
and Argentines in New York.

And I played all the tangos
with Gardel

and, when I finished playing,

he said, and I quote him,

"Boy, you play the bandoneon
very well,

but you play tangos
like a Spaniard."

For me, she was my whole life...

She was like Spring sunshine...

All I can say is that
I was very close to him

because, two weeks
before Gardel died,

I received a telegram
from him in New York,

offering me
to go on tour with him.

Luckily, I didn't do it,
because of a family issue.

And it happened this way.

In '59, that is,
25 years after Gardel's death,

my teacher D'Aquila,
whom you mentioned, came.

He collected antiques.

And in a New York basement,

less than 300 feet
from where we lived in New York,

he saw a scorched, burnt figure,
for sale, and it said,

"To the great Argentine singer,
from Vicente Piazzolla."

That figure
was stolen in Medellin

when Gardel's plane crashed,

and it came back
to the same place

where my father had made it.

This lasted until 1936,

when we returned.

In Mar del Plata,
we had a radio;

I spent my time
listening to orchestras:

Elvino Vardaro, Pedro Maffia.

There, I caught the bug.

I fell in love with music
for the first time in my life

when I was 16.

Miguel Caló's orchestra
came to town.

I made friends with all of them,
I went to their hotel and said,

"I want you to listen to me."

You were daring.

I was.

And when I started to play,
they went crazy,

"Where did you come from?"
I was like a kind of Martian.

And I kept playing.

Immediately, they said,

"Don't you want to come
to Buenos Aires?"

And I had to go and talk
to Mom and Dad.

I told them about Miguel Caló
and Dad was happy;

he knew he was losing me.

I told him, "Dad, I'm leaving."

"Your mom is going to cry,
she's going to get sad."

Anyway...

I went to live on a hostel
on 1400 Sarmiento St.

On your own?

On my own, of course,
I was studying all day long.

What was the place like?

It was awful, terrible food...

I cried at night. I cried a lot.

You were homesick.

I was 17, 18 years old.
They called me "Tenderfoot."

I was working
in a sleazy cabaret

on Esmeralda St.
called "Novelty."

I started to get to know
the world of gigolos,

prostitutes, drugs,

drunkards, swindlers.

I was part of that world
because I was in an orchestra.

We were 13 musicians
in the orchestra,

and 12 had a woman.

I couldn't...

If Nonino found out
I was living with a woman,

he'd have killed me.

It was like that.

My dad told me, a billion times,
what his dream was.

"I would have liked to be
a concert pianist."

I don't remember
what year it was.

He found out where
Arthur Rubinstein was staying

and went to show him the score,
no shame whatsoever.

"I've come
to see Master Rubinstein."

My dad gave him the score.

The guy played it on the piano

and I suppose
he must have liked it

because he recommended
studying with Alberto Ginastera.

Ginastera was like
talking to a priest to me.

I studied really hard,
I was happy,

I'd go to concerts
in Colón Theater,

I saw the rehearsals,

I analyzed music,
started to buy records.

- I started to listen.
- And to change.

I started to change.

TO DEDITA:

ALWAYS MY FIRST AND ONLY
LOVE. ALWAYS YOURS, ASTOR.

My mom made my dad study.

She saw what was rehearsed in
the Colón on Saturday morning.

"They're rehearsing 'The Rite
of Spring' by Stravinsky.'

She would buy
the score in Ricordi

to follow each instrument.

Then, my dad would go there

and follow everything
the orchestra played

from beginning to end.

My mom did all that.

ASTOR AND BORGES

MOM

This Tango,
I've seen it danced...

In a yellow sunset...

By some who were able...

To do another dance,
the knife dance...

Tango of that
Maldonado stream...

My mom had an incredible ear.

My dad composed and called her,

"Dedé, does this sound familiar
to you?"

"Let's see, let's see.

No, it's not like
anything at all."

"Good, that's fine, thanks."

You'd see her in the kitchen,
singing. She sang very well.

You always looked at me
straight in the face...

Tango, bliss in my life...

Borges had heard
my mom singing...

I think she sang four milongas.

They go to record
and Edmundo Rivero arrives.

Borges was sitting there.

They finish recording a song,

Skinny López Ruiz comes over
and asks him,

"What do you think, Master?"

He said, "Very nice,

but I liked it better
when the girl sang it."

In Edmundo Rivero's face!
And "the girl" was my mom.

Since yesterday...

How much...

Has gone between us...

The goodbyes and the pain...

Of loving and not being loved...

I will have died...

And you'll still be...

On the outskirts of our life...

Buenos Aires
never forgets you...

Tango...

You were and will be...

Music is for people that think.

I want people to think
when they come to listen to me,

and not to have fun
or digest their food.

I worked at night,

but, at 2:00 p.m. sharp,
I was prepared and ready

to listen to Troilo.

From 2:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.

One day, somebody got sick
and I say,

"Do you want me to replace him?"

To whom did you say it?

To Pichuco.

"No, kid," he says.
"You're too young."

"But I know the whole repertoire
by heart," I said.

And I played, of course.

And soon after that,

I was first bandoneon
with the great Troilo.

And right away,
I started to study.

While I'm studying,
I get married and write.

I start to be Troilo's arranger.

I would write 100 notes,
he would erase 20,

and I didn't like that.

So I said, "I want an orchestra
to play everything I write."

Because I wanted to do
a different kind of music.

By the time Daniel is born,
I'm playing with Fiorentino.

I remember
I got horrifically drunk

because the boy was born,

I wanted a boy
and Daniel was born.

Then, I left and put together
my orchestra,

it was less money,
but I had my own orchestra.

I had the best musicians
in the world

because I was already famous,
I was Piazzolla.

And, of all the tango
orchestras, it was the best.

THE SINGING SOUL

SINGING

Were you starting
to have enemies?

No, there weren't so many
enemies at that time.

The only enemies I had
were the ones with feet,

the ones that danced, you know?

They couldn't dance
with the orchestra,

they complained,
and I got fewer jobs for dances.

Little by little, I evolved
along with the music.

The arrangements
were getting complicated.

All this kept developing

and I kept doing what I liked
and not what other people liked.

But I was doing worse
and worse with dances.

I had studied, made progress.

I was much better,
and then, I said, "I'm out."

And I did it.

Goodbye, tango.

In 1950, I hung the bandoneon
up in the closet.

I didn't want to play
the bandoneon ever again.

I just made a living
on what I arranged,

I only did arrangements.

I never played
in a cabaret again.

- For real?
- Never again.

And why?

Because I decided to do so!

Astor Piazzolla,

the Argentine composer,
whose creations show

he's an extremely talented
musician...

I present the symphony
in '53 and win First Prize.

I had won a second prize
before with "Rapsodia Porteña."

And then, I win
the Fabien Sevitzky...

The national Government
has granted him a scholarship

to study in Paris

composition, orchestration
and orchestral conducting.

And I took along
my bandoneon.

Just in case.

The great composers of USA

went to study
with Nadia Boulanger.

I always say she was
like a mother,

she wanted to know
what my life was like,

what I did,
if I was a good person.

"Are you married?"

"I'm married
and have two children."

"Okay, then."

I studied all day long.

She was a torturer.

She was reading
my symphonic music,

and she says,

"It's very well written,
but I don't see Piazzolla.

What does Piazzolla do?
Who is Piazzolla?"

I had to tell her
I played the bandoneon.

She didn't know.

She heard a style,
harmonically and rhythmically.

She didn't hear
the "chan, chan,"

the typical rhythm
in all the tangos.

She heard a new tango.

And from then on,
I was blown away,

I caught the bug.

I went back to the bandoneon
again and never stop.

I think it was the most
effervescent moment of my life

in terms of creation.

I wrote "Chau París,"
"Río Sena," "Nonino,"

"Marrón y Azul."

"Marrón y Azul,"
wrote all those there.

When I come back in '54,
nobody could stop me,

I was a kind of volcano.

I felt very cocky.

And the controversy started.

The musical revolution started.

The instruction
is to answer a violent action

with another, more violent one.

At Córdoba province,

at northeast, the main
military base of Argentina.

The cable of the France Press
agency is still saying

that this city is calm.

Many civilians
have decided to cooperate

with the revolutionary forces.

President Perón falls
and the tango falls,

how strange.

Tango faints and evaporates.

The bolero invades,

Bill Haley invades,
with boogie-woogie music...

Rock and roll.

All that, and a type of tango
automatically died,

because the tango
is no longer danced.

But, at the same time,
I was born.

After 1955,

there's something new,
tango to listen to, the music.

The evolution of tango.

It's completely different
from the tango that was danced.

It's something else.

I wanted to form a band

with eight of the best soloists
and conductors in Buenos Aires.

They were Stamponi,
Bragato, Hugo Baralis,

Francini, Federico
and Malvicino.

So they were the best musicians
in Buenos Aires.

How did you feel
at home all those years?

From '54 to '56?

I don't know,
I was carried away by the music.

I think it was really

the most important thing
for me.

- Hello?
- Who's calling?

Nelson?

Hey, this is Piazzolla.

I wanted to know,
what's the problem?

I don't have any problem.

Your campaign against my Octet
is bullshit.

Look, Astor,
you're completely wrong.

No, sir, you're vile.

It's not a campaign.

All I said is that
I don't agree with the Octet

because, for me,
that isn't tango.

For me, it isn't tango.

But yours
is a destructive campaign.

No, Astor...

You have no right to do this.

When I think the Octet is wrong,
I'll say so.

When I think the Octet is right,
I'll say so too.

You don't have
the authority to talk.

- Bye, Astor.
- Don't hang up on me, Nelson!

Don't do hybrid nonsense.

If you speak again,
I'm going to the radio station.

- I'll be waiting.
- And not precisely to talk.

Bring it on.

I'm going to Mitre Radio
and you won't have a show again.

- Bring the Octet.
- I will.

- Bye, Astor.
- I'll get you, believe me.

Bye, bye.

PROGRESSIVE TANGO

We often had to perform
for free

because nobody wanted the Octet.

I was really discouraged,

and, when I get discouraged,
I leave.

One day, my dad,
without giving notice,

like any Piazzolla,
doing the same stupid shit,

like my grandfather did...

He took a plane to New York
and stayed there,

like Nonino,
to repeat Nonino's history.

I was studying piano
with Marta Bronstein,

studying the Chopin preludes,

playing them
like a son of a bitch.

And my dad says,

"You're going to study

at the Juilliard
High School of Music."

"The Juilliard High School
of Music?"

Glenn Gould,
all the greatest went there.

We got there
and things looked bad.

But my parents hid it,
so Diana and I wouldn't worry.

- Yes, we were having a bad time.
- Right?

A very bad time.

I remember I used
to steal hams from the market;

I didn't have any money.

One day, I went to CBS
with my record.

I'll never forget
what the guy said.

"Very nice, but in this country,

it's not what you know,
but who you know."

At that time, my parents
couldn't even afford

a neighborhood piano teacher.

I didn't play the piano
for three years.

I didn't feel like it either,
having my dad unemployed.

It seems the situation
was sort of unbearable.

He was offered
a job as a translator

for the Argentine National Bank
on Fifth Avenue.

Nobody wanted him to do it;
we preferred to starve to death.

But, one morning,
he put on a blue suit he had,

a white shirt, a blue tie...

And so he leaves that morning.

We were in mourning
that day at home.

At about 7:00 p.m.

my dad arrives
with his jacket on his shoulder.

"How did it go, dad?"

"I stood all day long
in front of the bank.

I couldn't go in."

Man, we threw a party.

Walter, my dad's cousin, calls.

He looked him up
at a club called...

Flamboyan Club in San Juan,
Puerto Rico.

Flamboyan Club.

And that night,
I was making my debut...

I was there with Copes
and María Nieves.

They remember when Nonino died.

The worst thing
is not being able to leave.

It was my debut,
I needed money!

I couldn't leave
all the people playing there.

And I played, I played anyway.

I always remember Nonino,

he always laughed
at guys that got sad.

"Get up, you spoiled brat,
you have to play."

He always wanted me to play,
so I played.

Right.

Did you write "Adiós Nonino"
right away?

- I wrote it in half an hour.
- But right after Nonino died?

When I got to New York.

I sat down at the piano
and wrote it like this...

I don't know how I did it,
but I wrote it.

I always tell people,

"I tried to write another
'Adiós Nonino' many times,

I can't."

I can't do it;

that was a very special moment,

you can't...

That was when
you borrowed some money.

I didn't have the money
to come back, Diana!

I didn't have money
for the boat,

I was given $2,000.

"Adiós Nonino"

paid for our tickets
to Buenos Aires.

So I love it and hate it
at the same time.

I wanted to stay there.

Cinzano, Cinzano, Cinzano...

In Rome, Paris and Beirut...

Cinzano, Cinzano, Cinzano...

Synonym of vermouth...

Cinzano, Cinzano...

Cinzano,
in the nights of Buenos Aires.

The doors of the city
open to welcome a new message.

Astor Piazzolla brings it.

The Quintet made a revolution

because it came
with the bitterness

of the United States.

I had composed so many pieces,

I took them to Buenos Aires

and I played them
with the Quintet

and the string orchestra.

More exaggerated.

No, no. More dissonant.

Let's hear you.

No, higher.

Yes, but more like...

That's it.

We got back from New York

and Diana and I went
to live with my grandmother,

and my mom and dad,
with my mom's other sister

on Arenales Street.

Because the four of us

didn't fit into either
of the two houses.

Then, I would see my parents
every two weeks.

It was horrible,
the change was awful;

it ruined our lives.

A stage of cleansing
and purification starts.

Coming back
from the United States...

How old were you?

I was 40, in '60, '61.

Everybody, at four.
1, 2, 3, 4.

Now!

The shape of the new tango
is totally different

from what tango was until today.

I mean,
there's a harmonic change,

a rhythm change,
it's much more exciting...

In a nutshell,
tango is music above all else,

it doesn't lose one bit
of its essence.

The biggest showcase
I had in my life starts there.

Every night, playing

for a group
that was a real minority;

but that minority
started to listen to me

and to find out that the Quintet
was about new music,

that nightclub people liked it,
especially jazz people,

people that enjoyed the night.

I've asked this before...

Maybe...

What I remember
is you being very warm

with mom.

But did you already feel bad
about mom at that time?

I don't know how to explain it,
Diana.

It is not that I felt bad.

Mom was like having Nonina
with me.

She was my protection.

Right...

To feed me, to iron my clothes,
to do everything for me...

Right.

Instead of having a wife
or a lover, I had a mother.

We were together
with my sister until '65, '66,

I don't remember,

when my dad left home,

and that blew up
my whole family.

-"Who is it?"
- "Dad."

-"How are you?"
- "I'm leaving."

-"I'll see you later."
- "No, no, I'm leaving home."

"What do you mean
you're leaving?"

"Yes, I'm leaving.

I left some suitcases there;
take them to...

Please, take them to
this address: Tres Sargentos St.

And I stared in blank dismay,

because I'd have never
imagined something like this.

We were a marvelous family.

Then, my mom
got terribly depressed

and was dragging me and Diana
down too.

Diana left first,

she went to Chaco province
with the flood victims, to help.

Diana started getting
into politics,

and helping poor people...

And I left
a month and a half later.

So when you start that,
you leave home.

I started out without a house,
just work and work.

I didn't care about the house,
what I wanted was to write.

I was really selfish.

That selfishness is what gave me
the strength to keep going.

You never lost...

Don't forget
you need more courage

to break up than to stay.

I've been working on
"María de Buenos Aires"

for many, many years,
and I was lucky to carry it out.

We wrote it in three
or four months, just that.

We worked day and night
with insane enthusiasm.

"María de Buenos Aires"

opens with a band
of 11 musicians.

It was a box-office hit,
an artistic success.

But with two rows
in the theater every night,

with Ferrer we got into debt
and lost everything.

Meaning, it was
a nice artistic experience,

but a sad experience
as producers.

Hello?

Captain, Osvaldo Miranda,

how's it going?

I can see the airport.

Please, let Piazzolla go even
if it's in a parachute,

because he has to rehearse.

Don't worry about it,

they're already
rehearsing up here.

Listen.

After the economic failure
of "María de Buenos Aires,"

I go back to the Quintet,
I was called from Michelangelo,

and the Quintet was
a phenomenal nightclub success.

They paid you well there?

They never paid me well,
Diana, never.

A big audience, as you may see,

attends the Song
and Dance Buenos Aires Festival

in the Luna Park stadium...

This festival...

The famous Song
and Dance Festival takes place,

with Ferrer we had no money.

There was a $2,500 prize.
We wanted to win the prize.

We presented
"Ballad for a Madman".

Get on this crazy tenderness...

That lives in me...

Excuse me.

Astor Piazzolla's song
was contested,

"Ballad for a Madman",
is that true?

Yes, it's true, we got
at the Department of Culture,

in the early afternoon,

a refutation
of Piazzolla's tango.

Nuts, nuts...

Open yourself to love...

A couple that at this time
is stirring up controversy

in almost all the cafes.

Amelita Baltar
and Astor Piazzolla,

congratulations.

Thank you.

A lot of people say
this isn't tango.

And, of course,
people who say so...

But you competed
in Tango Category.

Indeed, though, some competitors
say this isn't tango,

and this is pure tango,
because it's Buenos Aires today.

Crazy, crazy...

He's crazy and I'm crazy...

The winner was
"Ballad for a Madman",

even though we lost.

We were given
a wretched diploma.

Astor, I'll cut to the chase:
Are you resentful?

No, absolutely not.

I'm a guy with a bad temper,
because I'm always attacked.

But not anymore,
I'm no longer bad tempered.

I ask you this
because in a newspaper,

a couple of months ago,

you insinuated that in Europe
you were recognized,

while here, in your country,
you're criticized, rejected,

and you were not given
the place you deserve.

This is a lifetime opportunity
to do important things,

I already have offers in France
to work with Georges Moustaki,

in Italy to work with Mina,
with Albini...

I mean, I have all the work
I never imagined I'd have.

Here, I have nothing,

I have no offer
and, there, I have it all.

My dad goes to Italy
and soon sends me a letter,

"Dani, I'm sending you
the latest cassette

of what I recorded."

When I heard it,

it was like Quincy Jones
with my dad's music.

Working with Gerry Mulligan
was a big change

because you see,

I never played jazz music.

Mulligan played my music.

That was a great honor for me,

because of my admiration
for Mulligan.

He did my music a lot of good.

Recording already, recording.

PROGRAM: PIAZZOLLA 75
TITLE: PREMIER 70

I'm happy, people support me,
applaud me and get me,

and get the message,

which isn't easy
because I change every year.

My dad was arriving
that morning, in March, 1978.

After a long stay in Europe,

Astor Piazzolla
is in Buenos Aires again.

Astor, are you staying
in Buenos Aires for good?

Yes, for now, I am.

Is there a reevaluation
of Astor Piazzolla?

A constant reevaluation.

I don't know,
tomorrow or the next day,

I'll start to think alone
at home

and I'll find out what I want.

I tune into the radio.

"We're going to talk
to Astor Piazzolla,

who is coming from Montevideo.

How are you Astor?
What news are you bringing in?"

I was listening and thinking,

"We start playing again,
nobody can stop us."

"I dissolved
the Electronic Octet.

I'm going back to the Quintet."

The worst thing
I could have heard in my life.

That night
I had made dinner at home.

I was destroyed.

All my plans were finished.

Playing with my dad
was the best thing.

Then...

I said the worst thing
I could have said.

I look at my dad and say,

"You're going backwards."

"Who do you think you are...!"

Everything was over.

Ten years without seeing my dad.

I always remember this...

I liked...

I mean, I used to think,
"I'm kind of manly."

I liked to imitate you.

The clothes you wore,
the black turtleneck, you see?

You wanted
to be an existentialist,

it was the period of Sartre,
all that.

You wanted to be like me...

Irascible.

And I was...

Yes. You were exactly
the same as me.

I was a troublemaker.
But I mean...

You.

Yes, me.

Daniel was a troublemaker,
but in a different way.

- Yes.
- At school, he misbehaved.

- Yes.
- But I was a good student.

No, you were... you were...

If you hadn't been a girl,

you would have played
the bandoneon.

Diana wrote all the time.

She loved to write poems,
to tell stories,

she had a lot of imagination.

She was such a lovable girl.

One day, at a birthday party,
she said,

"If we were in a war,
as enemies, I would shoot you."

And I told her,
"Shut up, are you crazy?"

"No doubt,
I would shoot you," she said.

I'm saying that this was
in the 70's.

At that time,

Diana already had a war name,
she was Elsa.

Nobody knew where she was.

We found out afterwards
that Diana had left,

we couldn't say goodbye
or anything.

"I, Lieutenant General
Jorge Rafael Videla,

swear to God
and before the Holy Gospel..."

Diana never forgave Dad
for having lunch with Videla.

And I think that she never
believed the reasons

my old man gave her
for having done so.

I know my old man was told
to go for lunch with Videla,

he didn't want to.

And they sort of threatened
him and he had to go.

They all were at that lunch.

I'll be judged by God
and our Nation.

GOAL

It's just the rhythm
that I preserve,

the rest is something different.

It's evolution,
it's contemporary.

Sure, something of the old tango
remains there,

but it's a different world,
the world of Astor Piazzolla.

CRAZY AND GENIUS ALL
TOGETHER

ASTOR "RAMBO" PIAZZOLLA
AGAINST EVERYONE

A TASTE OF FURY

PIAZZOLLA SHOWING TEETH

GENIUS AND MAD

Now it's a quieter time
of my life,

very happy and peaceful.

A strange thing made me rest;

I needed two years to rest.

That was the summer

I spent in Punta del Este,
Uruguay.

Those three months, between
'79 and '80, gave me a rebirth.

So my music isn't nervous

or aggressive or stabbing,

just the opposite,
it's very tender.

Romantic and different.

I keep discovering things.

What kind of things?

You're going to get there,
you'll hear it,

and you're not going
to understand anything.

Because I'm...
I'm in a period...

I don't know,
the Shark Period maybe.

Picasso had a Blue Period,
a Pink Period.

- I've got the Shark Period.
- What time do you go fishing?

Every other day;
today I fish, tomorrow I write.

Don't you get tired?

No, because,
when I fish, I think.

Since fishing
is a sport of patience,

I'm fishing with the rod
in my hand and I'm flying.

Since the fishermen
don't talk to me,

they just talk about fishing,
so I think.

I think about everything
I'm going to do tomorrow,

so I get home excited,
eager to write.

Let me tell you about the time
I visited Líbero Paoloni.

He bought chips for you
and I showed up instead.

He was disappointed,
but we talked.

He told me you weren't satisfied
with Pichuco,

you wanted to do something else,
you were bored.

"Kid, you are never happy!
What do you want?

To play in the Colón Theatre?"

"Why not?," you said.

In that very moment!

The most important thing
is that it was my country,

the best theater in my country.

- Revenge too, right?
- It is a kind of revenge.

"In your face."

"You fought against me?
Here I am."

My dad dreamed
of a Mercedes Benz.

He was able to buy it in '87.

After a long life,

and he barely enjoyed it
for a year and a half.

In 1988, he had a heart surgery.

And the doctor told him,

"Piazzolla, get off stage,
devote yourself to composing,

it'll be great for you."

My dad couldn't do it.

My dad liked to be
on stage playing.

Do you ever dream about Nonino?

Yes. I remember him a lot
in a good way.

Because Nonino
knows what's happening to me,

he fought so hard for me...

I think I was the son he wanted.

He really...

I think very few fathers

would have made
the effort he made,

he did everything
so I could study.

He didn't send me
to any psychoanalyst,

he gave me some nice slaps,
and no psychoanalyst!

I learned to play.

And now I adore music
thanks to him.

I remember when Diana
presented the book.

Diana was already sick,
she could barely speak.

She was getting oxygen
at the book presentation,

and it was really difficult.

I knew Diana
had little time left.

I ran into my dad again in '89,
a year before he got sick.

He comes by to say hello,
honks the horn on the Mercedes.

"Hey, Dad, how are you doing?"

Very cold.

"We haven't seen each other
in a long time."

He says, "I'm very important,
that's why."

"How's it going?

How did it go
in Punta del Este?"

He says, "It was strange,

I couldn't compose
anything at all

for the first time.

In the whole summer, I couldn't
compose anything at all."

I said, "That stinks!"

He was worried,
he looked worried,

but he went on tour anyway.

That shitty 5th of August
he stopped playing

and fishing sharks.

My dad was in the room,
intensive care.

Diana had calmed down,
me too,

a guy stops me,
"Are you Daniel Piazzolla?"

"Yes."

"Come, Daniel, I'm going
to tell you a secret."

I said, "Oh, shit!"

"Sit down, please.

I know this from
a trustworthy source.

Your dad made a pact
with the Devil.

He exchanged success
for this shitty end."

My dad always said,

"The worst thing for me
would be to get paralytic."

And that happened.
I never saw that guy again.

Daniel and I saved sheets
of paper that at first...

Afterwards,
he didn't write anymore...

He didn't write,

but made hieroglyphics
with his left hand.

And suddenly, I found one,

with exclamation marks
upside down, of course,

that said, "How lonely!"

Astor Piazzolla in bandoneon.

PIAZZOLLA THE YEARS OF THE SHARK

This Tango,
I've seen it danced...

In a yellow sunset...

By some who were able...

To do another dance,
the knife dance...

Tango of that
Maldonado stream...

Having less water than mud...

Tango, whistled by...

From an old chariot...

Carefree and shameless...

Always looking upfront...

Tango, bliss in my life...

Of being a man, a brave man...

Tango, a happy one...

As happy as I was...

As my memory tells me...

The memory was oblivion...