cycle

MUNICH, Germany — Nicholas Brownlee had just fallen in love with opera and was eager to see if his emerging bass-baritone voice could handle Richard Wagner’s music. It did not go well.

“I kept reading how you have to wait to sing this big repertoire,” Brownlee said. But there was one bit of Wagner — Wolfram’s “Song to the Evening Star” from “Tannhäuser” — that’s “a little bit lighter. I figured it was more appropriate.”

So he brought it to his teacher, Thomas Rowell, at the University of South Alabama and asked what he thought.

“I just laughed at him and told him to go away,” Rowell recalled. “He knew that big voice was there, and he was so eager to try on the clothes, but they didn’t fit for a while. It was still a very young instrument.”

Reminded of that exchange nearly 20 years later, Brownlee smiles. “I was a bit ambitious,” he said. “But this was just me.”

Now that ambition — what he calls “a fire in my belly that burns brighter every day,” — has helped propel Brownlee to the very top of his profession at age 37. And he’s done it by singing a lot of Wagner.

Brownlee recently made his debut as Wotan, embattled king of the gods, in “Die Walküre” at the Bavarian State Opera House, part two of a complete “Ring” cycle directed by Tobias Kratzer. He had previously sung the role in “Das Rheingold,” the opera that opens the cycle.

The critics reached for superlatives. “A heroic baritone straight out of a textbook,” wrote Markus Thiel in Merkur, “with a powerful, resonant voice, a force of nature.” Carlota Moseguí in Platea Magazine praised his voice and said Brownlee “possesses all the qualities to become the definitive Wotan of his generation.”

Next, Brownlee heads to the Wagner shrine in Bayreuth, Germany, where he will star as the title character in “Der Fliegende Holländer” (“The Flying Dutchman.”) And his upcoming season is one Wotan after another.

“It’ll be ‘Siegfried’ time in Munich, then ‘Walküre’ time in Buenos Aires, then ‘Rheingold’ time in Barcelona,” he said. Add to that two of the “Ring” operas in Frankfurt and then two complete cycles next summer back in Munich.

“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing to have a student who goes that far, especially from a small regional state university like ours,” said Rowell, who remains close friends with Brownlee and officiated his wedding to mezzo-soprano Jennifer Feinstein. “I have to pinch myself. I’m enjoying it vicariously.”

Does Brownlee worry at all about damaging his voice from so much heavy singing?

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say this, but no, not really,” he replied. “We like to put this big stamp on Wagner and say ‘Be Careful!’” But he said he finds the demands of each opera different enough to help him avoid burnout.

Still, he promises that his roles the following season will be more varied, including a return to one of his favorites — Baron Scarpia in Puccini’s “Tosca.” And down the road are two Verdi roles — the villainous Iago in “Otello” and the comic Falstaff.

Of the latter, he said, “I want to flex a different muscle. I talk fast, I’m a bubbly, fun guy, but what I do on stage is so serious all the time. Boy it would be fun to just be a jolly fat guy!”

Just how did a boy from a working-class family in a small town outside Mobile, Ala., become one of a handful of go-to singers in the world for these demanding roles?

His first success as a vocalist actually came as the youngest grandchild in a large extended family, performing Conway Twitty imitations to grab attention. Classical music had to wait until he fell under the spell of his high school choral director.

When he went to college, he planned to study conducting, but Rowell heard him sing and cajoled him into joining the Mobile Opera chorus.

“I went in the first day and I hated it,” Brownlee recalled. “I said, this is in Italian, who cares? That’s for stuffy elite people, not for us blue-collar fellas.”

Still, his curiosity made him determined to figure out why some people loved the art form. So he sat by the side of the stage one night to watch the emotional final scene of Verdi’s “La Traviata,” when the heroine dies after being reunited with her lover.

“When she said, ‘O, gioia!’ and she fell into his arms, and now she’s dead, Alfredo’s weeping over her, and Germont is feeling half-responsible, I was weeping uncontrollably,” he said. “And I didn’t even know what they were saying.”

That’s when he started taking voice lessons, and from there followed years of study and apprenticeships both in the U.S. and later in Germany. Along the way he competed twice in the Metropolitan Opera’s National Council Auditions.

The first time, still in his early 20s, he made it to the semifinals in New York. “I did not go on to the finals, which was absolutely correct,” he said. “Failure is a great lesson.” (Coincidentally, one of the winners that year was Ryan Speedo Green, who performed Wotan in May at Walt Disney Hall and will bein the Met’s upcoming “Ring” cycle.)

Brownlee returned in 2015, and this time he took home one of the top prizes. Other awards have followed, including in 2025, best male singer at the International Opera Awards and the Richard Tucker Award for most promising American singer.

Yet this American singer is still barely known to most opera audiences in his native country. Brownlee’s career has so far been largely in Germany, where he and Feinstein are raising their two daughters and are currently applying for dual citizenship.

“I can perform anywhere in Europe and be home in two hours to see my girls,” he said. “In America that’s just not something you can do.”

He may be rooted in Europe for now, but major U.S. houses are beckoning with increasing urgency.

When he appeared at Chicago’s Lyric Opera this past spring as the prophet Jochanaan in Richard Strauss’ “Salome,” general director John Mangum called his performance “absolutely thrilling.” He said Brownlee is “definitely going be at the top of our list” as the company charts its future Wagner performances.

And Peter Gelb, the Met’s general manager, who heard him sing a major role for the first time during the Munich run of “Walküre,” said “I was blown away. … We’ll definitely be offering him big roles at the Met in upcoming seasons.”

Silverman writes for the Associated Press.

San Juan arrives at the Cruz de Mayo Wake

For this second installment of our work on Venezuela’s life cycle festivities (click here for part I), we present an in-depth conversation with the renowned Venezuelan musician, cultural practitioner, and percussionist Rolando Canónico. Together, we reflect on the immense responsibility of preserving Venezuelan traditions, specifically during festivals such as Cruz de Mayo and San Juan. From his dual role as a professional musician and cultural worker, Canónico addresses the tension between the commodification of music or competitive virtuosity and absolute respect for ancestral rhythmic and melodic patterns, defending the playing of the drum as an act of genuine devotion rather than a spectacle. He further delves into the powerful spiritual and syncretic connection he experiences when “dialoguing” with the instrument, underscoring his firm commitment to protecting and passing on this invaluable family and cultural heritage to new generations in Caracas.

A percussionist, drummer, and cultural creator, Canónico has participated in Fundación Bigott and renowned musical groups such as Caracas Sincrónica and Francisco Pacheco y su Pueblo. His trajectory is intertwined with a more discrete, yet vital, task: safeguarding Venezuelan musical memory. What began as a conversation between friends turned into a deep discussion about ethics, spirituality, and the responsibility of honoring the legacy of our ancestors in the twenty-first century.

Family and heritage: the weaving of a music lineage

To understand Rolando Canónico, one must look back at his ancestry. “My paternal grandparents passed away many years ago: Luisa Amelia Aponte de Canónico and Benito Canónico,” he recounts. Benito Canónico was the author of “El Totumo de Guarenas,” an important folk music composition. A musical heritage that flows through Rolando’s veins. However, as we delve into his role as a “host” of these festivities, Rolando turned his gaze toward his maternal lineage –to the women who, through the energy of daily life, kept the flame of devotion alive.

His story takes us to the Afinque Marín in the densely populated Afro-Venezuelan community of San Agustín, Caracas, where his maternal great-grandmother became a cultural bridge. “When that wave of people from Barlovento arrived –that migration boom from Barlovento to Caracas –she had the opportunity to be there when all these cultural expressions arrived,” he explained. It was there that, without any artistic pretensions, driven solely by faith, his great-grandmother began to adorn the Cruz de Mayo.

This responsibility passed to his grandmother, Rosa Emilia Pérez Sanz. “She embraced it as such,” Rolando told us, describing a pedagogical-community learning process where knowledge wasn’t taught in classrooms, but rather through observation and habits shared with neighbors. Music, for its part, was naturally incorporated through his mother, the founder of local band Los Tucusitos, blending Christmas carols with the fervor of the Cruz de Mayo vigil. For Rolando, that early exposure to music, combined with the discipline of his musical training, allowed him to turn a family passion into a profession.

A double celebration: a rite of transition and coming together

The celebration that Rolando Canónico holds at his home in La Pastora is not a one-off event, but rather part of a 43-year tradition that has been formally recognized by the Culture Ministry’s Institute of Cultural Heritage for the past 15 years. Every last Saturday in May, the house becomes the setting for a symbolic transition: the farewell to May, dedicated to Cruz de Mayo (May Cross), and welcoming June, the month of San Juan.

The logistical effort is monumental. “It’s not just a matter of sitting there, shouting some stuff, and that’s it,” Rolando emphasized. The process begins days in advance, with the presentation of newborn children and spiritual cleansings. Rather than merely attending as spectators, the community becomes an active participant: “People already know when it is; they don’t even ask anymore –they just show up with a small bouquet of flowers, a candle, fruit, or even a kilo of vegetables for the soup.”

The masterfully designed altar serves both festivities. “We make one, but it also serves as decoration for both,” explained Rolando, describing a symbolic overlap where the Cross is moved aside to make way for San Juan. This is the moment when devotion becomes tangible.

One of the most tense and beautiful moments of the night is the ritual procession. When San Juan arrives, the Cross, guarded by its devotees, seems to resist the change. “That encounter there, that clash, there comes a moment when San Juan announces that he’s going to come out, and the Cross doesn’t want him to,” Rolando tells us with the intensity of someone who has deeply witnessed that “struggle.”

To manage this tension, Rolando delegates to a decimista [poet], who acts as a mediator. He not only sings but also has the authority to say “He said it right!” at the precise moment when the euphoria outside the house reaches its climax. It’s a necessary exercise in control: “I have to do it this way because otherwise the whole thing turns into a conflict.” As the sirens* and golpes de tambor** intertwine, the cross at the altar gives way to the triumphal entry of San Juan, closing one portal to open another.

Rolando Canónico narrates the intensity of this coming together:

That encounter there, that clash, there comes a moment when San Juan announces that he’s coming out, and the Cross doesn’t want him to. So the devotees of the Cross hold their ground. It’s something beautiful, truly beautiful. Right there in that moment, with San Juan already coming down the stairs and the fulía [traditional rhythm] playing at the altar, the devotees form a circle so the fulía doesn’t stop. In the end it’s not a struggle but a meeting. The meeting where San Juan rises as he descends the stairs, already looking toward the Cross, and he’s trying to leave the house to welcome those who are coming. It’s as if he’s saying, “I’m letting you know that I’m on my way here.”

Regarding the energy that is unleashed when the festival reaches its peak with the arrival of the San Juan statues, Canónico adds: “That’s the moment when the altar of the Cross begins to be dismantled, when all the crosses are removed to make way for San Juan.” “That clash there between the Cross and San Juan gives you a powerful feeling,” he continued. “And when the three San Juan statues meet in front of the house, I can’t even describe it…”

Responsibility toward our ancestors and their legacy

If there is something Rolando Canónico is known for, it is his intransigence toward shoddy work. In a world where the commodification of traditional music threatens to sever it from its roots, he stands as a bulwark.

“In my house, I don’t accept things done poorly.” For him, the drum is not an instrument for competition or for displaying empty virtuosity. “I’m not putting on a show. I’m fulfilling a family promise,” he emphatically clarifies. His authority within the festival doesn’t stem from arrogance, but from a deep understanding of and respect for the musical codes, styles, discipline, and rigor that his teachers instilled in him.

This rigor extends to his training of new generations. Rolando is fully aware of his role as a guide and seeks to prepare his nephew and other young people so that the tradition is not diluted by stage “improvisations.” It is a pedagogy by example: he inaugurates each drum, ensuring that the rhythmic foundation is consistent with what has been passed down for centuries.

Finally, the conversation heads into more intimate territory: the relationship between the musician-artist and the divine. When asked if he experiences an altered state of consciousness while playing, Rolando responds with overwhelming sincerity. “I am a devotee of San Juan the Baptist; I am a santero… my spirituality is deeply connected to the drum.”

For Canónico, there is no separation between the musician who reads the score and the practitioner who offers his prayer through the drum’s vibrations. “That’s the best spiritual cleansing there can be here –playing the drum the right way,” he affirms. “I say ‘the right way’ because with the drum, you have to communicate with it.”

This dialogue, this meeting between the sacred and the profane, is what makes the festival in La Pastora, in Rolando’s own words, a “formidable experience.” By the end of our interview, it’s clear that his work is not merely a tribute to the past, but a strategy for cultural re-existence. As our interviewee aptly summarized at the end of our meeting, the true responsibility of a cultural artist is to ensure that, when San Juan arrives at his doorstep, the drum sounds exactly as it should: with the truth of the ancestors and the strength of a future that, thanks to people like him, is guaranteed a place in Venezuela’s collective memory.

Notes

*Sirenas are a cappella songs with an octosyllabic quatrain meter used to express devotion to both the Cross and San Juan.

**Golpes de tambor refers to multiple rhythms where drums, usually in sets of three, are the main protagonists. From a melody standpoint, singers take turns between solos and choruses.

See below for more details on the festivities and the surrounding music.

Fabiola José is a Venezuelan singer. She has performed in countries across South America, Africa, Europe, and Asia. Her singles and albums are available on all digital platforms. She hosted and produced “Cantante y Sonante” for Radio Nacional de Venezuela. In 2018–2019, she created a series of videos for social media, published on her YouTube channel #HechoEnCasa. She holds a bachelor’s degree in Music from IUDEM, Caracas (2005); specialized under Maestro Tom Krause in Spain (2007); and an M.A. in Arts and Cultures of the South from UNEARTE, Venezuela (2020).

Fidel Barbarito is a Venezuelan musician and researcher, with a bachelor’s and master’s degrees in music and history, respectively. He teaches in the undergraduate and graduate programs at the National Experimental University of the Arts (UNEARTE). Together with Fabiola José, he promotes several musical projects aimed at disseminating traditional folk repertoires, integrating them with contemporary compositions inspired by these sounds. Joropo llanero. Parranda de reexistencia is one of his published essays.

The views expressed in this article are the authors’ own and do not necessarily reflect those of the Venezuelanalysis editorial staff.

The Sounds of Celebration

To gain a deeper understanding of the rich soundscape that defines the festivities at the Canónico family home, we break down how the musical universe of these celebrations is organized. It is not merely a decorative sideshow, but rather the ritual language through which faith is expressed.

The music in the Cruz de Mayo wake: a devotional geography (drop-downs with more info)

The Cruz de Mayo ceremony, which precedes the arrival of San Juan, features a structure that honors various regions of Venezuela. Canónico explains that this part of the festival requires specific discipline and respect for the different genres according to their geographic origin.

The order of the genres

Devotional music follows a set pattern that begins with the “Salve Llanera.” Afterward, songs representative of various regions are performed: Lara, Oriente, Falcón, and finally Zulia.

The poet and the sirenas

The mediator plays a crucial role. He recites poetry (“décimas”) and also has the authority to sing sirenas. This person is responsible for maintaining the choir and the performance during the most intense moment, when the altar of the Cruz is being prepared for the transition.

Interpretive rigor

There is a strict hierarchy. Although the community is invited to participate, the singers are committed to specific roles. For example, those responsible for the salve must perform it with the rigor that tradition demands, avoiding any “improvisation” or inappropriate mixing with other genres.

Music for San Juan Bautista: the strength of the drum (drop-downs with more info)

Once the ritual procession takes place and San Juan enters the house, the soundscape changes radically. Canónico explains that, unlike the Cruz, San Juan marks the beginning of a sequence in which the drum takes center stage.

Performance spaces

There is a geographical distinction within the house. The genres permitted to be performed inside the home, directly in front of the altar, are limited and sacred: sirenas, culo e’ puya, quitiplás, and San Juan de Guatire. All other musical performances take place outside the house.

The main reference

Rolando Canónico, as the host and a cultural leader, inaugurates each drum. He performs the Afro-Venezuelan section—specifically the Miranda fulía—alongside his nephew and his godson, ensuring that the rhythmic pattern remains true to tradition and does not veer toward competitive or show-oriented styles.

Ethical guidelines

At the Canónico household, a clear policy has been upheld: to play not for the sake of competition or virtuosity, but out of devotion, tradition, and beauty.

Talking to the instruments

For Canónico, playing the drum is not a technical performance, but a dialogue. He asserts that, in this context, the saint dwells within the drum and that playing it is a form of spiritual cleansing. When the instruments sound, the performer seeks to “detach” himself from rigid patterns in order to let a powerful energy flow, especially when several San Juan statues gather in front of the house.

This musical framework is, in Canónico’s words, a “system” in which every drumbeat and every décima has a specific place and time to ensure that the legacy of the ancestors remains alive without being corrupted by trends or commodification.

Rolando Canónico is a prominent Venezuelan percussionist, educator, and cultural practitioner, recognized as a key figure in the preservation of traditional community music and Afro-Venezuelan percussion. Initially trained at the Bigott Foundation’s Popular Culture Workshops, he has built a prolific musical career by joining iconic groups such as Francisco Pacheco y su Pueblo, Pomarrosa, and Caracas Sincrónica, as well as accompanying important Venezuelan artists, including Cecilia Todd, Cheo Hurtado, Betsayda Machado, Fabiola José, and Luisana Pérez, on recordings and on stage.

Beyond his virtuosity as a session musician, Canónico stands as an active guardian of Venezuela’s musical tradition, demonstrating a deep ethical and spiritual commitment to organizing community festivals, ensuring that historical accuracy and the identity of the ancestors remain alive for future generations.

PHILADELPHIA — Kyle Schwarber launched two long home runs in Philadelphia’s eight-run third inning and Bryce Harper became the 11th player in franchise history to hit for the cycle, leading the Phillies to a 15-3 victory over the New York Mets on Saturday night.

Schwarber led off the Phillies’ huge inning with a solo homer off Mets starter Freddy Peralta, sending the ball 456 feet into the second deck in right field.

Later in the inning, Schwarber hit a three-run shot off Cionel Perez into nearly the same spot, 457 feet away.

Schwarber is the 67th player in major league history to hit two home runs in an inning and the second this season, joining Houston’s Yordan Alvarez, who accomplished the feat on June 12. He’s the fourth Phillies player to do so, along with Trea Turner (Aug. 19, 2023), Von Hayes (June 11, 1985) and Andy Seminick (June 2, 1949).

Schwarber hit his third homer of the game — giving him a major league-leading 28 — in the seventh, a two-run shot off Tobias Myers. He finished four for five with six RBIs and scored four runs.

Harper completed his first career cycle by the fifth inning. He hit a solo home run in the first, his 16th of the season. He doubled and scored on an error in the third, then singled after Schwarber’s second home run.

In the fifth, Harper lined a ball into the gap in left-center field and motored around to third base for a two-run triple. He’s the first Phillies player to hit for the cycle since Weston Wilson on Aug. 15, 2024. Harper finished four for five with three RBIs and two runs.

Harper is the second player this season — and this week — to hit for the cycle, joining the Chicago Cubs’ Pete Crow-Armstrong, who accomplished the feat Monday night in a 5-4 win over Colorado.

Imagine the Swedish landscape and a stereotypical scene of idyllic red cottages with white trim, foregrounded by a lake of glimmering blue, might spring to mind. Beyond perhaps, adding depth, lies a band of birch and spruce, and a midsummer view of wooded islands.

Now, add to this image the sight of two half-naked men lunging from a tiny sauna cabin into the cold shock of a lake. One screams. The other ducks his head under, pops up, shivers, then does it again. His skin has the pinkish tinge of salmon, but he’s smiling.

Those swimmers are my friend John and me (I’m the one grinning), and we’re quickly learning that the subversive joy of cold-water swimming – and stripping off in nature – are Swedish obsessions.

We’re on the first day on the Lelångenleden, a 112-mile (180km) cycle route of newly linked trails, which takes riders from the Bohuslän coast, north of Gothenburg, through the lakes of Dalsland and deep into the coniferous forests of Värmland, where the country is wilder still. The promise is traffic-free gravel roads and a segment that runs along the embankment of the discontinued Lelången railway, as well as a journey punctuated by stops in lake towns so charming they could easily be creations of Pippi Longstocking author Astrid Lindgren.

But we’re up for a sterner challenge than the recommended four-day itinerary. Our plan, researched and booked online using West Sweden Trails’ helpful planning tool, is to split the route into three sections of about 40 miles each and cycle for up to five hours a day. Along the way, we’ll be staying in quiet hotels and a campsite where the food is as important as the lake setting.

“You won’t be alone,” says Erik Josefsson, founder of the Dalsland Experience, the tour organiser and bike shop that rents us our gravel bikes and bikepacking gear – for the next three days, we’ll be living out of frame and saddle bags. “Why not?” I ask Josefsson, a little disgruntled. “Sorry, I meant to say there’s plenty of wildlife in the forests!” comes the reply.

West Sweden’s burgeoning cycling scene is largely thanks to the ambition of the regional tourist boards. Now in development, the Västkustleden will be a new national cycle path between Gothenburg and the Norwegian-Swedish border, while the 105-mile Ljungleden opens this month and links together two of Sweden’s most popular trails (the Kattegattleden in Gothenburg and the Ätradalsleden in Falköping). More and more Swedes want to spend their summers cycling, and the Lelångenleden – affordable, family-friendly and largely flat – is tipped to become the next top-tier trail.

We start in the coastal village of Uddevalla, overlooking the beaten metal blue of the Byfjorden, setting off from the Strandpromenaden, a beautiful seaside boardwalk below granite cliffs – a few years ago, it was named Sweden’s most beautiful road. Then, before we head north, a 15-minute detour takes us to Gustafsberg, Sweden’s oldest seaside resort, with a beach, a jetty, a colony of crimson-tinted bathhouses and a historic lido converted into a hostel.

After four hours in the saddle, the fully serviced eco-campsite at Ragnerud Lake, at the foot of the Kroppefjäll plateau in Färgelanda, is a welcome stop for our first night. We check in to a cosy red cabin, then take canoes out on the lake and enjoy a restorative sauna, before watching the sun’s glorious rays cresting the treetops as the light fades. There is a very special quiet and otherworldliness to Sweden in the late summer.

Overseeing this wilderness are campsite owners Linus Bergström and Marielle Örtengren, who grew up on the lake, and the location offers access to one of southern Sweden’s largest hiking destinations. On their doorstep is 200m years of geology and 80 miles of trails.

The campsite’s sustainable restaurant Ragnerud Kök showcases the gifts of the forest – mushrooms, lingonberries, dill flowers. We share plates of kroppkaka (boiled potato dumplings) with chanterelles and brown hazelnut butter, and beef with beetroot and mushroom cream. Then it’s lingonberry-poached pears with forest marmalade. “We hike, we pick mushrooms. Then there is the pure thrill of jumping into the cold lake,” says Linus. “We love the simplicity of the forest and the slow pace of life.”

On untamed gravel roads the next day, red waymarkers guide us to the Dalsland Canal, a system of natural lakes and locks connecting 157 miles of waterways, where cold water swimmers regularly strip off, leaving John looking sheepish. Our cycle route soon morphs into the canal towpath, and we pass a lock house turned summer cafe that’s selling waffles and ice-cream, and lock keeper’s cabins of stone, wood and iron, which can now be booked for overnight stays.

At the end of the 19th century, the variety of terrain – bristling forests, silent mountains, quivering lakes, almost alpine landscapes – prompted Prince Eugen of Sweden and Norway to describe Dalsland as a microcosm of his homeland. As a prominent landscape painter, the prince captured the soul of the place better than most, and his description fits the Sweden we wheel through. With more lakes than anywhere else in the country, our map shows hundreds of spreading fingers, with depths of inky blue.

We stop for the night in the former lumber town of Bengtsfors, checking in at First Hotel Bengtsfors before heading for dinner at Storgatan 19, a cocktail bar with a menu fit for a Tour de France winner. “Seasonality is vital,” co-owner Oliver Tveter tells us, and I order a lifetime-best skagen (prawn salad, but served on a potato pancake) and fallow deer with pickled pumpkin.

The woods around the town are so vast, breathing and beckoning that they can fool you into believing you are being followed, especially in the slanting, shifting early morning light. For all that, it’s not frightening, but a landscape that enlivens the senses. Often, there are roe deer running earnestly across the road – once, I brake hard to avoid a collision.

What’s more, there is a sense that time is not linear in Dalsland. When we cycle deeper into the dense coniferous forests on our last day, it is as if the clock has been wound back. The red barns and lonely church on Lake Västra Silen look like period pieces. When we surface again from the woods to arrive in a blaze of Lycra in the little mill town of Gustavsfors, we have to push onwards for our fika (social coffee break) as it’s Sunday and all the cafes are shut. Any thought of modern-day Sweden has largely been erased.

On our last afternoon, near journey’s end in Värmland, the gravel slowly welcomes us back into the 21st century. I had worried there wouldn’t be enough to do on our trip, but in the end there are so many interruptions – lakes that quiver like jelly, photo stops for elk signs, cold swims everywhere – that we have to clock-watch until the end.

As we reach the road to Årjäng, where our trip finishes, I gaze back and strange half-certainty comes to me. That I’ll return to west Sweden as soon as I can – maybe even on a bike.

The trip was provided by West Sweden tourist board. The Dalsland Experience organises guided and self-guided itineraries and rents gravel bikes and bikepacking gear. Itinerary planning information can be found at Lelångenleden. Ragnerud camping pitches from £20; cabins from £75. Doubles at First Hotel Bengtsfors from £96 B&B. Lock keepers’ cottages from £200

Black amber, all painted, white foam…
The rain sings, summer is over.
White foam… May flower.

“Flor de Mayo”, Otilio Galíndez

The Chakana path,
It is up and down, inside and out…

Water is synonymous with life, and rain is perhaps the metaphor through which Mother Earth conveys the importance of preserving, nurturing, and multiplying life on this planet. For the peoples of the South, May is a turning point. It brings the rainfall, and thus abundance is renewed. The wet season begins in these torrid regions of exuberant contrasts and excessive beauty. Everything sprouts, blooms, and matures.

In May, the night sky in the South allows us to behold the zenith of a constellation that holds immense value in the ancestral worldview of our peoples: the Southern Cross. This fixed constellation consists of Alpha Crucis, Gamma Crucis, Beta Crucis, Delta Crucis, and a fifth star, Epsilon Crucis, which, although not part of the main points, serves to distinguish it from the “False Cross.” 

Our Andean ancestry, which exerts a deep influence on all the Indigenous peoples of Abya Yala, identifies this constellation by the name Chakana, which can be translated as a ladder or bridge between the earthly and spiritual worlds. It means complementarity, harmony, and purpose, as well as a path for returning to the core. The Chakana is the organizational center of the Andean world and its entire sphere of influence, which is why it is the focus of numerous and diverse rituals, ceremonies, offerings, and festivals throughout these territories. 

From the moment of their arrival, the Spanish conquistadors were struck by the symbolic power, veneration, and cultural identity of the peoples of Abya Yala with the Chakana. This is why they suppressed all traditional knowledge and ritual symbols, imposing their Eurocentric worldview in the clearest demonstration of colonial epistemicide. Temples, codices, and sages were demolished, burned, tortured, and martyred in the name of Christianity, which came to replace the Southern Cross, a symbol of knowledge and life, with the Catholic Cross, as a condensed symbol of pain, domination, sacrifice, death, and the promise of resurrection.

In Venezuela, a series of daytime and nighttime ritual activities persist, drawing young people and adults alike, in cities and rural areas alike. Afro-Venezuelan peoples especially cherish these traditions. The celebrations of the Cruz de Mayo, San Isidro, San Pascual Bailón, Corpus Christi, San Antonio, San Juan, and San Pedro, among others, escape the Catholic liturgical calendar that continues to try to assimilate them. They are celebrations framed within those exuberant contrasts of excessive beauty that cause everything to sprout, bloom, and mature. These are the days in which the Venezuelan people celebrate the cycle of life and for which they have created music, dances, drinks, foods, costumes, and poetry that have transcended both the Catholic Church and its Inquisition as well as civil and military power, in a testament to the most committed re-existence.

Lighting the altar candles

Wakes (“velorios”) are community gatherings organized to honor the deceased, a saint, the Virgin Mary, the Baby Jesus, or the Cross. These gatherings are held to fulfill a vow or out of devotion, and they feature prayers, drinks, food, poetry, singing, and dancing.

The velorio is a popular tradition that goes beyond the institutional framework of the Catholic Church. In fact, as early as the Synodal Constitutions of the Bishopric of Venezuela and Santiago de León de Caracas of 1687, published by Bishop Diego de Baños y Sotomayor, these activities, which “attract large crowds” and in which “many indecencies and offenses against God are committed,” were prohibited under penalty of “Major Excommunication.” Certainly, the Church seized on these practices of profane worship of the madero (the wood) to imbue them with Christian meaning.

At the center of the velorio dedicated to the Cruz de Mayo (“May Cross”) stands an altar with a main cross and two smaller ones. These are crosses without the image of Christ, “dressed” with cloth, paper, and multicolored flowers. The altar and its surroundings are also decorated in harmony with the crosses, and the offerings of candles, fruits, food, and drinks are arranged in such a way as to celebrate the abundance of a countryside that turns green again at this time of year.

The church’s calendar states that May 3 marks the celebration of “The Finding of the Cross.” Therefore, on the night of May 2, vigils begin in all the eastern states, as well as in Guárico, Lara, Cojedes, Aragua, Yaracuy, Carabobo, Barinas, Apure, Portuguesa, Miranda, Falcón, and in the city of Caracas. People give thanks for health and the fertility of the land. In the central coastal region, where Afro-Venezuelan communities are present, sirenas and fulías are sung. In the llanos, three-voice tonos are performed. In the east, the rhythms include galerones, malagueñas, fulías, jotas, and punto y llanto. The decimistas (poets) make offerings in a circular formation and vie for the spotlight as the musicians and singers perform.

Dancing up and down in a cross 

The Dancing Devils of Corpus Christi dance by forming a cross on the ground, to which they add new crosses with every turn, spiral, backward step, and leap. Each movement has a specific meaning and timing because the goal is to maintain order between the upper and lower realms, between complementary forces that must harmonize. Or, put more simply, to ensure that good prevails over evil.

The Incarnation of Christ in the Eucharist is a movable feast that occurs nine Thursdays after Holy Thursday. There are references to its celebration dating back to the third century in the Roman Empire. In 1350, it began to be celebrated in Barcelona with processions that reenacted the Devil’s defeat by the power of the Cross. In Venezuela –specifically in Ocumare de La Costa –there is evidence of Dancing Devils dating back to 1621, and although masked devils were present in many places, this practice survived only in the central region as a magical-religious ritual in the states of Aragua, Carabobo, Cojedes, Guárico, Miranda, and La Guaira.

The people, embodying the Devil, do not view the Evil One as a figure but as a concept. He is simply a force opposed to God. A revelrous, playful, and imperfect being. However, the promesero, dressed in colorful pants and a shirt, wearing masks of different sizes, shapes, and shades, which bear no resemblance to the European portrayal of the devil, protects himself with prayers, scapulars, bells, whips, and crosses that he carries as part of his attire. But his greatest protection is the insistent sign of the Cross he traces with the movements of his foot and the hand holding a maraca.

The cuatro or the caja (snare drum) are the instruments that accompany this celebration, depending on the community. Only in the town of Chuao are both used, though at different times. There is no singing, and the rhythms are performed with different beats that vary in intensity and speed. There are eleven Afro-Venezuelan lay brotherhoods or cofradías recognized as Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO, and each has a distinct musical identity linked to its spiritual environment.

Beating the drums

Pipas, quitiplás, culos ‘e puya, minas, curbatas, cumacos, and maracas are the essential instruments with which the Venezuelan people celebrate the arrival of San Juan (John the Baptist), the most popular Catholic festival in seventeenth-century Spain that was brought over to preserve the identity of the conquistadors while simultaneously subjugating the Indigenous peoples and later the kidnapped and enslaved African peoples. Coinciding with the second cocoa harvest in these territories, the birth of John the Baptist, exactly six months after Jesus, became the figure of greatest devotion on the major slave-owning plantations along our country’s northern coast. 

San Juan is regarded by the people as a saint who charges for his miracles. He’s drinker of aguardiente, a dancer, and a reveler, which is why there is both a popular celebration and an institutional, Catholic one. It must be remembered that Black people were barred from entering the church until well into the nineteenth century. Today, depending on the town and the priest, drums may or may not be allowed inside the church. In any case, the popular celebration of San Juan involves dancing, singing, drumming, drinks, and food –all meant to reclaim a freedom that was historically limited to an extreme. For this reason, it was a celebration that was persecuted and punished with excommunication during the colonial period, as we saw in the above mentioned Synodal Constitutions.

The San Juan festival cycle begins on June 1 with the “Repique de San Juan.” Families, communities, and various organizations meet in advance to plan and assign responsibilities. It is a colorful celebration reflected in the participants’ attire, flags, and scarves. Women’s participation is essential, particularly in the singing that takes place during the sirenas, the sangueo, and the golpes. These songs accompany the individual dancing of those carrying the flags and the saint in the sangueo, which is part of a group dance, but also the dancing of individual couples and, to a lesser extent, of linked couples.

The songs to San Juan are, above all, responsorial, alternating between soloist and choir, often improvised. Each drum has its own “tonada” or way of singing it, and in each locality, even if the same drum is used, the way of playing it and the style of singing this or that beat may vary. They follow the African tradition of three-drum ensembles –interdependent and complementary –where polyrhythm is enhanced by the timbral qualities of each drum, with the lowest-pitched one taking the “lead,” providing the beats and embellishments. “The Saint is in the drum,” it is said, affirming the enduring relevance of the worldview of the Indigenous peoples of West Africa.

¡Arriba negro!

With this call, a singer signals to his partner that it is their turn to sing, because in the bella, the galerón, and the seis figureao, consecutive duets of singers in two different voices (a third apart) take turns. Meanwhile, in the yiyivamos, the juruminga, the perrendenga, and the poco a poco, one singer improvises verses and a chorus responds. The so-called Sones de Negros are made up of seven songs. However, it all begins with La Salve, a solemn song in which permission and a blessing are sought from the saint to begin the dance; once this is finished, the battle ensues, sung in two-part harmony and “danced” by two men with traditional stick-fighting. 

The dance in the bella and galerón consists of male-female couples who participate one after another in a free-form manner. The seis figureao features a choreographed dance by three couples performing intricate, intertwined movements and turns. In the yiyivamos, juruminga, perrendenga, and poco a poco, independent couples dance, executing figures and movements as directed by the singer. San Antonio presides over an altar beautifully adorned with flowers, fruits, candles, clubs, crosses, bread, and other foods. Musicians and singers stand facing the altar, and each time the dancers enter the circle, they bow to the saint as a sign of respect and gratitude.

The Baile de Negros or Sones de Negros may have originated in the vicinity of El Tocuyo, in the fertile valley irrigated by the Tocuyo river, where the sugarcane-producing slave plantations were located. Its characteristic sound comes from an ensemble of stringed instruments related to the Baroque and Renaissance guitar, known as the cinco, medio cinco, requinto, and cuatro. The master or most experienced player plays the cinco. The timbral variety of the instruments and the ornamentation of the requinto give this instrumental ensemble an unmistakable texture. 

In front of the saint stands the Tamunango or Tambor de Negro, a fundamental instrument constructed from a long, hollowed-out log, sized so that one musician can sit on it and play with their hands on its single head, while another strikes the wooden body with the drumsticks. The rest of the musicians are arranged around this instrument. A double-headed drum, a tambourine, and maracas complete this celebration, which is most popular in the states of Lara, Falcón, Yaracuy, and Portuguesa. Throughout June, with a focus on the 13th, these communities organize this traditional dance in homes, squares, streets, and fields -a celebration that cannot end without a sancocho (wood fire, community-prepared stew)  soup) and a glass of cocuy de penca (agave-derived drink).

Stomp on the boss!

The San Pedro festival is perhaps one of the most complex. Certainly, it is part of the cycle of life celebrations, featuring music, dance, food, and drink specially prepared as an offering to the saint. But as a kind of narrative that highlights Peter’s benevolence, there is the story of the enslaved María Ignacia, who, desperate over her daughter Rosa Ignacia’s illness, offered the deity an annual celebration. Once the miracle was fulfilled, María Ignacia danced until the last day of her life, and on her deathbed asked her husband to keep the promise. That is why a man in drag, carrying a rag doll in his arms, reenacts today the promise that María Ignacia’s husband made to his wife.

The cuatro and maracas are the accompanying instruments, and there may be many of them providing harmonic and rhythmic support to a soloist, which are answered by a chorus from the audience. The latter either joins in or simply watches this parranda as it winds its way through the streets of Guatire and Guarenas (outskirts of Caracas), starting from the church and making strategic stops at the homes of the revelers, the headquarters of the cofradías, and other points of interest.

Although there is no dramatized performance, during the procession there are characters in costume with carefully assigned roles, performing specific actions to convey the story of the miracle that was granted.

It is a distinctly joyful celebration. In the lyrics, music, and dance, there is a feeling of gratitude for favors received. This festive nature does not mean a loss of conscience. The Parranda de San Pedro carries a very powerful symbolic weight that recalls the use of irony and theatrics as a tool of clandestine insurgency, allowing people to denounce oppression and express their own identity as human dignity. When they sing: “With the cotiza [sandal], stomp the earth / turn it to dust without mercy…” and suddenly switch earth (“terrón”) for “boss” (“patrón”), it becomes perfectly clear what they are talking about.

The candles remain lit in the collective memory altar and the music continues to sound. After following the path of the Southern Cross and the beats of existence, the Chakana route has another stop. In the upcoming delivery of this column, we will go deep into the heart of these festivities in their wonderful displays of cyclicity, complementarity, and interconnectedness.

Fabiola José is a Venezuelan singer. She has performed in countries across South America, Africa, Europe, and Asia. Her singles and albums are available on all digital platforms. She hosted and produced “Cantante y Sonante” for Radio Nacional de Venezuela. In 2018–2019, she created a series of videos for social media, published on her YouTube channel #HechoEnCasa. She holds a bachelor’s degree in Music from IUDEM, Caracas (2005); specialized under Maestro Tom Krause in Spain (2007); and an M.A. in Arts and Cultures of the South from UNEARTE, Venezuela (2020).

Fidel Barbarito is a Venezuelan musician and researcher, with a bachelor’s and master’s degrees in music and history, respectively. He teaches in the undergraduate and graduate programs at the National Experimental University of the Arts (UNEARTE). Together with Fabiola José, he promotes several musical projects aimed at disseminating traditional folk repertoires, integrating them with contemporary compositions inspired by these sounds. Joropo llanero. Parranda de reexistencia is one of his published essays.

The views expressed in this article are the authors’ own and do not necessarily reflect those of the Venezuelanalysis editorial staff.

On the second weekend of May, Gustavo Dudamel gave the New York Philharmonic a salsa shock. He gleefully brought the startled players together with the Spanish Harlem Orchestra, an uptown salsa and jazz band, for concerts at Lincoln Center and Washington Heights. The city‘s classical music fans treated it as a cultural breakthrough; Dudamel is expected to transform the orchestra as a cultural institution when he returns in the fall as its music and artistic director.

A day later he was back in Los Angeles to begin rehearsals at a Walt Disney Concert Hall that had been fantastically transformed by Frank Gehry for the Los Angeles Philharmonic’s staging of “Die Walküre.” Transformation — be it cultural, orchestral, personal — has marked Dudamel’s 17 years as music (and more recently artistic) director of the L.A. Phil, which is now coming to an end with his three weeks of concerts in Disney to close the season June 7, followed by a celebratory weekend at the Hollywood Bowl in late August.

But meeting with Dudamel in his dressing room after a “Walküre” rehearsal (the opera begins Tuesday night at Disney and runs for six nights, an act a night, the full opera performed twice) , he says as he has said before, he does not think of this as a culmination, merely the beginning of a new adventure. He’s apartment shopping in New York. But he is keeping his house in Los Angeles.

He’s also departing with two very long new titles as “Die Walküre” premieres: the Diane and M. David Paul Artistic Cultural Laureate of the L.A. Phil and Jane and Michael Eisner Founding Director and Conductor Laureate of Youth Orchestra Los Angeles (YOLA).

Gustavo Dudamel conducts the Los Angeles Philharmonic in a performance of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis at the Walt Disney Concert Hall on Feb. 22.

(David Butow / For The Times)

“We are talking about projects,” he says. “Look, I’m coming back for two weeks in December,” when he will lead Beethoven programs. He returns in the spring. The Bowl will always be a second home.

“I’m living here and I’m not living here,” he explains. “The connection will always be here.”

The energy in New York is, he continues, “super exciting.” And what excites him the most is how comfortable he feels with the very real differences between L.A. and New York.

“As a Latino from Venezuela,” he says, “I have an immediate connection with the New York that is home of salsa. When I was in the womb I was hearing salsa.” His father, Oscar Dudamel, is a trombonist and salsa musician.

But he adds that mariachi, ubiquitous in Mexico and L.A., is also an integral part of Venezuelan culture. “What I have to say is that I am blessed. I’m blessed that both cities are now part of my life.”

Bringing ‘crazy’ ideas to Los Angeles

L.A., of course, has been the major part of his adult life. At 24, an unknown, he made his dazzling U.S. debut in 2005 leading the L.A. Phil at the Hollywood Bowl. Four years later, he became the orchestra’s music director and caught the world’s attention.

There is no doubt that Dudamel’s extraordinary talents would have meant a major career wherever he landed. But, here, he inherited the world’s most culturally open major orchestra, where fresh thinking and new music thrive. Disney Hall allowed him the extraordinary freedom to dream. Being back at Disney, Dudamel admits, is very emotional, especially conducting “Walküre” with Gehry’s sets of billowy, sumptuous clouds and fanciful white papery horses.

“Frank is here with us,” Dudamel exclaims about the architect, who died in December and with whom he had become close. Conducting Wagner’s opera, in many ways, sums up Dudamel’s ambitions, the way he has connected with more sides of L.A.’s cultural landscape than possibly any other artist.

In L.A., Dudamel grew as an artist and a person, he says, through his relationship with an orchestra that is uniquely flexible and a welcoming community. This allowed Dudamel to be what he likes to call “crazy.”

“I remember the first time I came here. I didn’t have a chance to do or see anything,” he says of his Bowl debut. “So, I remember driving from the airport to Sunset Boulevard, where my hotel was, and I didn’t understand anything. But immediately it was the connection with the orchestra.”

Frank Gehry designed the sets for a Jan. 18, 2024, performance of Wagner’s opera, “Das Rheingold,” with Gustavo Dudamel leading the Los Angeles Philharmonic at Walt Disney Concert Hall.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

Flash forward 20 years from 2005 to 2025. In what seemed like a truly crazy idea, he brought the L.A. Phil to the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival, where he led a varied set of classical favorites and appearances with pop stars, for 150,000 people shouting “L.A. Phil! L.A Phil.” Among the highlights was “Ride of the Valkyries,” the English title of “Walküre.”

The symbolism of doing “Walküre” is, for Dudamel, unmistakable. Wagner’s four-part “Ring” cycle, of which “Die Walküre” is the second opera, strongly influenced the “Star Wars” films Dudamel grew up with. The saga’s composer John Williams is another L.A. legend who became for Dudamel like family. Williams has, in fact, written a fanfare, “Bravo Gustavo!” that Dudamel will premiere on June 4 in a concert in which he celebrates the musicians of the L.A. Phil.

The “Walküre” production, moreover, further expresses his desire to remain connected with L.A. When asked whether he still plans to complete the “Ring” cycle with the L.A. Phil, which he began two seasons ago with “Das Rheingold,” he says, “completely.”

It’s a radical notion, to say nothing of an extraordinarily expensive and time-consuming challenge for any orchestra given to a former music director, but Dudamel has never been one to take no for an answer. “At my last conversation with Frank,” he recalls, “I said I was coming to talk about ‘Siegfried’ [the next opera in the cycle], and he said, ‘You are crazy.’”

“That was Frank. He freaked out about the operas every time I talked to him about them. And then he came up with fabulous ideas.

“You know I never dreamed about coming to the L.A. Phil. I was happy in Venezuela and guest conducting elsewhere. But when I met Frank and John [Williams], I knew I had come to the right place.”

One reason Dudamel was happy in Venezuela was his position as music director of the Simón Bolívar Youth Orchestra, part of El Sistema, the country’s famed music education program. He brought a version of that to Los Angeles with YOLA, which offers free musical education to students. Bringing young people together to learn — and not just to play music but to listen to each other — has grown increasingly essential to him.

Gustavo Dudamel has fun with John Williams at the Hollywood Bowl as he conducts the L.A. Phil during “Maestro of the Movies: John Williams with the LA Phil” on July 9, 2023.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

On Thursday evening, USC awarded Dudamel an honorary doctorate during its graduation ceremonies at the Coliseum, where Dudamel also gave the commencement speech.

“I will never tire of repeating this: music, art and beauty are universal rights,” he told the graduates, urging them to go out into the world listening to others, seeing others, paying attention to everything. These are the practices he has long championed as the essential need for youth orchestras.

This was, in fact, almost precisely what he said when he first arrived in L.A. “I was very young, but I grew up with these ideas,” he told me.

“You have to say to the students, ‘Stop! Let’s pause. Just listen.’”

“It’s a way to really connect with what surrounds you, but also connect with yourself. That’s the beauty of all the layers of listening we do as musicians. I now think that is our main tool. In the end it’s not listening only to sounds. It’s listening as connecting with others.”

Practicing what he preaches

As Dudamel plans for his next chapter, he indicates that the advice he gives students is what he is also saying to himself.

YOLA students perform on stage during a “Gracias Gustavo Community Block Party” at the Judith and Thomas L. Beckmen YOLA Center in Inglewood on Oct. 11, 2025.

(Etienne Laurent / For The Times)

What L.A. gave him, he concludes, is a greater depth of his own listening. There was the guidance of Deborah Borda, who, as the orchestra’s president and CEO, hired and mentored him. There were the opera productions with Peter Sellars, who made him look deeply inside himself. There were the communities to discover and with which to collaborate.

New York, he insists, will be a further continuation of this process. “There are a lot of things to do. As I did here, that will be not only conducting but spending a big amount of time doing other things. I will have to listen to the community. Every place is different.”

And every place needs to be, for Dudamel, connected. He began his last season in Disney in the fall with the world premiere of Ellen Reid’s “Earth Between Oceans,” a bicoastal co-commission between the L.A. Phil and the New York Philharmonic, sonically evoking the environmental difference between L.A. and New York. He recently repeated it with his new orchestra in David Geffen Hall in New York.

In L.A., Reid’s score felt like a vast, moving, spiritual soundscape of our fires’ fury as well as our coastal fancy. At Geffen, it became a gripping showpiece, like attempting to zoom in a Ferrari through Manhattan streets, were they ever empty — the thrill of taking it all in.

Dudamel says his favorite place in New York so far is the orchestra’s archives. Becoming absorbed in the history of America’s oldest orchestra gives him new ideas. He wants simultaneously the old, the new and the many.

He also insists on ever more connections. ”We are making, many, many projects together,” he says of the L.A. Phil and the New York Philharmonic. That includes bringing the two orchestras together in a further experiment in listening.

“That‘s very important to me, one of my dreams. And it’s not difficult,” he says. “We have plans and it’s beautiful. We have to do that.”

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