An Unexpected Encounter with "La Tuna"

"We play music now!"

Recently I found myself in the city of Santiago de Compostela in Northern Spain, having walked the last section of the Camino de Santiago from the town of Sarria.

This mini-pilgrimage took me through the region of Galicia, where the rolling hills and often grey skies bear a surprising resemblance to parts of the United Kingdom. I was even more surprised by Galicia’s Celtic culture; there’s a bagpipe player stationed outside Santiago Cathedral, at least one shop that sells kilts, and a tradition of folk music said to resemble that of the British Isles.

On my last night in the city, I set out to find some of this Galician folk music. The internet directed me to a pub where folk music was apparently to be found on most nights. And it was! Just not on Wednesdays, which is the day this happened to be.

Oh well, I thought. Maybe it was for the best – I had an early flight the next morning, and would probably be wise to turn in. At this point, however, things started to get surreal.

I turned around to leave, and immediately found myself looking at a man in a long, colourful cape holding a guitarrón (one of those big guitar-type instruments you see in Mexican mariachi bands). Underneath the cape he was wearing a doublet, pantaloons and stockings, and he was walking like he had somewhere to be.

An obscure Spanish law states that if you see a man in a cape walking down the street holding a guitarrón, you must follow him, and so I did exactly that. Wherever he was going, there was sure to be music there.

The cloaked, guitarrón-wielding man was moving with surprising speed, and I found myself almost jogging to keep up with him as he marched through the narrow, winding streets of the Old Town, and past the towering cathedral. Eventually, however, I saw him slip into a tiny bar on a busy street lined with restaurants.

I carried on walking for a few minutes while I tried to think of an appropriate way to strike up a conversation. Settling on “I like your guitarrón,” I made my way back to the bar.

The situation had continued to develop during my brief absence. The guitarrón player was still there, but now he was sitting down and singing while strumming a Spanish guitar. A second man, identically dressed in doublet, stockings and cape, had joined him and was singing along. I watched them from the doorway, and then ordered a drink and sat down to watch some more.

The playing and singing continued, but now more musicians were arriving, all dressed in the same unusual attire. Most of them bought their own instruments too – one man arrived carrying a flute and a bandurria, a relative of the mandolin. It gradually dawned on me that I was witnessing a rehearsal, hopefully to be followed by a performance of some kind.

Just then, one of the musicians looked at his watch, and suddenly all of them downed their drinks and ran out. Before I could work out what was happening, the guitarrón player I had originally seen poked his head back through the door, waved at me and said, “Come! We play music now!” before disappearing again. Still feeling the effects of the five day hike I had just done, I hoped they weren’t going too far.

The happy group of cloaked musicians bounded through the streets and across the square in front of the cathedral, the arrival point for many a tired pilgrim. They came to a stop under the arches of the Palacio de Rajoy, where (as I might have expected, considering how strange this evening had already been) an accordion player was awaiting their arrival.

The guitarists took turns tuning up to the accordion, and then the entire band – which by this point had gained several more members – positioned themselves in a line and began to play.

Dusk had settled over the square, and the tourists and locals out for an evening stroll were drawn to the sound of the music. Soon the curious bystanders had become a crowd, and just like that, we had a concert on our hands.

All of the events leading up to this point had felt completely surreal, but now I was happy just to settle in and enjoy the music. Exactly what kind of music this was, I still wasn’t sure – definitely not the Galician folk I had set out to find. It was similar to mariachi music, but the alternating presence of bagpipes and the accordion gave it a different flavour. Here’s some footage:

Various bandmembers took their turn in the spotlight. One, who was announced as being from Mexico, sang a sad, quiet song where he held a series of extremely long notes. Most of the songs, however, were upbeat and celebratory, and the atmosphere grew steadily more party-like as the evening progressed. What was being celebrated? The joy of being right there, in that moment.

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At the airport the next morning, I was still preoccupied with questions about the previous night. What was that? Who were those people? And what kind of music did I hear?

It turns out that the group I encountered were La Tuna de Derecho de Santiago de Compostela. The tradition of “La Tuna” dates as far back as the 13^th Century, when university students would take to the streets to perform popular Spanish songs in the hopes of earning some extra income.

Over the years, the traditional students garb has remained, while the groups themselves became social clubs of sorts, found in university towns in Spain, Portugal and beyond. Originally tunas were all-male, but today there are many all-female tunas (such as La Tuna Femenina de Medicina de Granada, seen below).

La Tuna Derecho de Santiago de Compostela, meanwhile, actually just released an album back in January. It’s an enjoyable listen, but captures little of what it feels like to see the band in person. If you really want to experience the magic they produce, you’ve got to get to Santiago – ideally after walking the Camino for at least five days.