Pugliese, the tango legend that became Argentine musicians good luck charm

Behind the scenes, out of the public eye, Argentine musicians share a ritual that transcends genres: using images of tango legend Osvaldo Pugliese to bring good luck and ward off bad mojo. It’s a myth that floats through popular culture, though no one remembers exactly where it began. Even if we don’t see it, it’s everywhere: inside instrument cases, tucked into a wallet, or taped to the wall of a rehearsal room, production office, recording studio, or the sound console of a live show. Known as San Pugliese (Saint Pugliese), the holy card image has long been an essential ally of Argentine musicians because of its unique power to bring good luck —or, even more prized, to drive away bad luck. Before starting a concert, making an album, or simply beginning the day, musicians invoke their pagan patron saint with three resounding “Pugliese, Pugliese, Pugliese” —as if by invoking his name they manage to receive a kind of protection or anti-jinx shield. As León Gieco sang in his 1992 song “Los Salieris de Charly”: “We always mention Pugliese!” And so Osvaldo, one of the greatest artists in Argentine popular music, has always been there for several generations and devotees of all musical styles, beyond his vast body of work and the recordings of his legendary orchestra. Years ago, at the Argentine Society of Authors and Composers of Music, San Pugliese cards used to be distributed freely among musicians, who gave them to fellow band players and techs. Advertising was not immune to the myth either. Decades ago, beer company Quilmes ran a commercial proposing the addition of an eighth day to the week, to be named “Osvaldo Day.” The choice of name was far from accidental. In 2024, the documentary San Pugliese was exhibited at the Buenos Aires Independent Film Festival, and is now available to stream on Flow. Persecuted, censored, and imprisoned Ironically, Osvaldo Pugliese did not believe in God, at least not after joining the Communist Party in 1936, where his membership number was 108. Yet today he is revered almost like a divinity, including backstage at dozens of theaters where technicians have enlarged the famous holy card and musicians now greet it with a kiss before stepping onto the stage. Musician and producer Tweety González gave the Herald a possible explanation about the origin of the myth: “Playing with Pugliese brought good luck because he paid musicians more than any other orchestra. His band was a cooperative in which everyone earned equal shares. People really connected with that.” Indeed, the story goes that by the late 1920s, Pugliese dreamed of having his own orchestra after performing with figures such as Enrique Pollet, Roberto Firpo, and Pedro Maffia. His first attempt, alongside violinist Elvino Vardaro, ended in financial disaster. They went bankrupt during a national tour and even had to pawn their instruments to pay their way back to Buenos Aires.  He later played with Alfredo Gobbi and Miguel Caló, but in 1936 he tried again, and formed a sextet that became the starting point of his celebrated orchestra, which lasted 55 years until his death on July 25, 1995. But the cooperative structure was not Osvaldo’s only achievement, as he himself explained in a famous interview published in Humor magazine in the 1980s: “The arrival of sound cinema caused widespread unemployment among tango musicians, jazz players, and classical musicians. To make matters worse, jukeboxes replaced tango orchestras in neighborhood cafés. Total unemployment, combined with the crisis of 1929. That’s why, in 1935, we founded the first popular music union to resolve musicians’ economic and labor problems,” he recalled.  “The first strike took place in the cabarets, and we won a day off, better wages, and the right to finish work at four in the morning, because before that we worked like slaves, from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m.. That was a triumph, an important victory, because musicians at the time were completely abandoned, without any organization to defend them.” In that Argentine Musicians’ Union, Pugliese held membership card number 5. A pioneer. But as a consequence of his militant political activism, he was persecuted, censored, and imprisoned by both Juan Domingo Perón’s government and the following military regime, known as the Revolución Libertadora.  Every time he was jailed, his wife Lidia would go to Devoto Prison to collect his orchestral arrangements and bring them to the musicians, where Armando Cupo usually replaced him. In this way, the orchestra never stopped performing, and during his absence a red carnation was always placed on his piano in his honor. A myth and a legend Many say the worship of San Pugliese originated in the 1980s in recording studios, concerts and soundchecks. When technical problems arose and the atmosphere became tense, someone usually suggested playing a Pugliese record to fill the silence. Miraculously, the problems would then resolve themselves. Since then, whenever someone is going through a rough patch or things aren’t going as planned, it’s customary to invoke his name three times in a row: “Pugliese, Pugliese, Pugliese!” —to attract good luck and ward off bad energy. The good-fortune and anti-bad-luck powers of San Pugliese multiplied with the arrival of the Internet, where a Facebook page about it soon attracted more than 75,000 followers. There is even a kind of prayer circulating throughout the web, identical to the one printed on hundreds of holy cards distributed at Club Huracán during the opening of the Third Tango Festival in 2001. It is believed to be written by poet and musician Alberto Muñoz (who denies it), and reads: “Protect us from all those who do not listen. Shield us from the bad mojo of those who insist on the national wishbone. Help us enter into harmony and enlighten us so that misfortune is not the only cooperative action. Lead us through your mystery toward a passion that does not break our bones and does not leave us in silence staring at a bandoneón resting on a chair.” The multiplying effect of the myth is now unstoppable: San Pugliese has become part of the rich tradition of legends in popular music, sustained by artists who —as everyone knows— tend to be highly superstitious by nature. And just as actors have their own catalog of superstitions (their aversion to the color yellow, for example), Argentine musicians have none other than Saint Pugliese. Osvaldo, who did not even want to be called maestro, surely would not have liked this elevation to divinity. But perhaps today, from beyond, understanding the good intentions and even tenderness behind it all, he would smile. The skinniest and most shortsighted of tango musicians would surely crack a smile when nobody looked.