Mi Catrina Calavera

$3.25

SSAA + Piano
3’00”


Note: This is a digital score (PDF).
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Día de los Muertos is often perceived as an ancient, static tradition, though many of its most recognizable symbols are relatively recent. La Calavera Catrina, introduced in 1910 by Mexican lithographer José Guadalupe Posada, began as a critique of Eurocentric aspiration and became central to the holiday’s iconography through artists such as Diego Rivera. This composition engages the satirical tradition of calaveras literarias by adapting the lesser-known accompanying poem (not by Posada), creating choral repertoire specifically for Día de los Muertos and re-centering La Catrina within her original social and artistic context: an affectionate irreverence towards death.

Forces

SSAA, Piano

Text

Mi garbancera,
Mi catrina calavera,
Estilando de su era,
Estrenando su tacón.
Mi Margarita,
Que te crees tan bonita,
Y serás infinita,
Porque eres cráneo del montón.

Rosas fragantes,
Tantas Trinis trigarantes,
Y unas Choles palpitantes:
Muelas en el panteón.
Las Carolinas
Que se echan de catrinas
En las tiendas de la esquina:
Calaveritas del montón.

¡La Muerte viene, ya, por todos!
Y aunque se pintan de ladrillo o bermellón,
Nos encuentra.
¡La Muerte nunca será codo!
Paga la cuenta sin ninguna discusión,
Con tu deuda.

Mi garbancera,
Mi catrina calavera,
En la muerteprimavera,
Cuando llega la ocasión.
Ninguna Anita,
Julia, Lupe, ni Cuchita,
Ni Carmela, Sara, o Pita,
Escapará nuestro montón.

Te encuentro en muertoreunión:
Calaveritas del montón.

Translation

My garbancera (chickpea farmer),
My catrina calavera (dapper skull-lady),
stylishly dressed,
showing off her brand-new heels.
My Margarita,
you think your pretty looks
will last forever,
but you’re just another skull in the pile.

Fragrant Rosas,
so many flashy Trinis,
and some thrilling Choles:
just molars in the cemetery.
The Carolinas,
playing dress-up as elegant ladies
in the neighborhood shops:
little skulls like all the rest.

Death is coming for us!
Even if rouged brick-red or blazing crimson,
she finds us.
Death is not a cheapskate.
She settles the bill without arguing,
collecting on your debt.

My garbancera,
My catrina calavera,
living in death’s springtime,
when that moment arrives.
No Anita,
no Julia, Lupe, or Cuchita,
no Carmela, Sara, or Pita
will escape our pile.

I’ll meet you at the gathering of the dead:
just little skulls in the pile.

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