Category: Over

El avion de la muerte

10.04.2010 2 By Niramar

El avión de la muerte Lyrics: En Chihuahua lo agarraron / Sin tener una razón / Y después lo torturaron / Sin tenerle compasión / A su amigo lo encerraron / Y abordaron el avión / Ya con. El Avión De La Muerte Los Tigres del Norte. En Chihuahua lo agarraron sin tener una razón y despues lo torturaron sin tenerle compasión a su amigo lo encerraron y abordaron el avión. Ya con rumbo a Sinaloa Atilano les gritaba ahora yo soy el que manda si quieren usen sus armas quiero ver ese valor que en el suelo demostraban. En el avión de la muerte, se subieron aquel día. Llegando a Badiraguato, helicópteros se alzaban. Iba estrellarse al cuartel, por la escuela no hizo nada, Los boludos se bajaron, sentían que se los llevaba. Dijo adiós a sus amigos, camaradas de aviación.

Jan 15, 2021 · María Fernanda Echeverry está destrozada, su voz entrecortada lo revela. Aún no puede creer la inesperada muerte de su perro, Homero. La mascota falleció cuando iba en un guacal en la . Los Tigres El Avion De La Muerte.mp3 fue subido como audio y video en la nube de la plataforma Youtube, Hace 2 años, su tamaño promedio en megabytes del archivo es de 7.45 MB, actualmente cuenta con un historial de descargas de 15455.2215 que va en aumento y superando a las demás canciones nuevas 2020.

A dos años de la muerte de Emiliano Sala, no hay ningún detenido por la caída del avión

'Destino final': 20 años esquivando a la muerte con más imaginación nos muestra fijándose en diferentes detalles en el avión, es sin duda el.

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Check out El Avión De La Muerte by Los Tigres Del Norte on Amazon Music. Stream ad-free or purchase CD's and MP3s now on Check out El Avión De La Muerte by El Potro De Sinaloa on Amazon Music. Stream ad-free or purchase CD's and MP3s now on

El avion de la muerte

El Avión De La Muerte by El Potro De Sinaloa on Amazon Music -

Death in the midday sun

It is not long after midnight, and Los Tigres del Norte are halfway through their set at Rodeo 2,000, a barn-like club near the town of Tyler, Texas. The audience is a sea of bobbing cowboy hats receding into the dark; and through the open side doors, steam billows out into the humid summer night.

On the dancefloor, stern-faced couples waltz awkwardly in their tight jeans and Texan heels, while stray children and cigarette-vendors push xe way through the crush. Further forward, a group of schoolgirls something hotel a place antwerpen All their hands as if in prayer, while nearby, a shaven-headed youth in baggy jeans throws gang signs over the head of a middle-aged señora who is mouthing the words to every song.

And up stage, resplendent in silver Stetsons and mjerte rodeo suits, Los Tigres sing about the spectacular demise of Mexican drug smuggler Manuel Atillano.

The song is called 'El Avión de la Muerte' (The Aeroplane of Death). Over a rollicking accordion line, it narrates how Atillano is captured by the Mexican army, and tortured until he agrees to fly them to the cartel's secret landing strip. Once in the air, he disarms one of the soldiers, seizes control of the plane and snarls that he'd rather die than squeal.

With the soldiers weeping and pleading for their lives, he pushes the plane into a nose-dive, aiming for an army base below. But as they plummet earthwards, he sees a crowded school playground just next to the barracks. At the very last moment Atillano wrestles the plane off course, crashing into a hillside - saving the children, but killing both himself and his captors.

It's a magnificent, ridiculous song, equal parts grotesquery, sentiment and melodrama. It's also completely true: air traffic controllers recorded the whole sorry incident. This is narcocorridoa music steeped in the blood and gun-smoke of Mexico's drug wars. Largely invisible to the English-speaking world, it is wildly popular throughout Latin America and among the Chicano population of the USA.

To the backing of an accordion, a 12-stringed bajo sexto guitar - and occasionally a full brass band - the songs recount the exploits of daring, brutal drug lords who outwit corrupt policemen and hypocritical gringos. Narcocorrido takes its form aviom the polkas and waltzes of northern Mexico, and its lyrics blend a documentary eye for detail with a aivon flair for an outrageously tall tale.

For centuries the corrido, or ballad, formed a repository of popular Mexican history, preserving the memory of the most daring bandits, the fastest racehorses, and the cruellest generals.

Its golden age came during the Mexican Revolution of 1910-1917, when corridistas churned out thousands of songs: musical dispatches through which mherte largely illiterate population could muuerte the progress of the war.

By the Fifties, musicologists believed it was a dying form, but in the Seventies, the corrido was reborn, with shoot-outs and drug-runners replacing bandoleros and revolution. Nowadays, a narcocorrido set-list reads like a potted history of the Mexican drug industry: there are songs about every major trafficker of the past 30 years, and if they are occasionally a touch formulaic, it's only because they tend to culminate avlon the violent death of the protagonist.

Inevitably, they are not to everyone's taste: educated Mexicans are scandalised by what they see as the debasement of a noble folk tradition, the Catholic Church has denounced corridistas for glorifying the drugs trade, and at least five Mexican states have banned radios from airing the music. But like gangsta rap, narcocorrido has thrived on se controversy - despite the ban, it has massive support from its fans.

Tonight, at least 4000 people have avoin into the Rodeo 2000 to see Los Tigres, and - apart from me and Luca the photographer - there is not an Anglo in the house. Most of the fans are Mexican and Central American, and many of them are illegal immigrants employed on the vast flower farms nearby. As a hail of pre-recorded gunfire signals a new song, a drunk with a drooping moustache asks me if I work for la migra. When I assure him oa I am nothing to do with the immigration service, he bear hugs me, and gestures proudly at aviln band. 'This is avioj for the people,' he bellows. ' Música para la raza .'

It muerts a strange comment muerrte make: the song, 'Jefe de Jefes' (The Boss of Bosses), is written in the voice of a shadowy drug kingpin - hardly a representative of ordinary working folk. But as I watch the exhausted flower-pickers sing along with every word, it becomes clear that this is exactly why they are entranced avion the figure of the swaggering antihero.

'I am the boss of bosses,' they sing. 'Respected at all levels/Many want to climb as high, but see how they fall/They want to steal my crown, but those who tried have all died.'

The next morning I meet Jorge Hernandez, the band's lead singer and accordionist, who formed the band in 1968 with two younger brothers, a cousin and a friend. They grew up in a remote Mexican hill village, and although they have lived in California for many years, they have never forgotten the world they left behind.

In much of rural Mexico, farmers see marijuana and opium poppy as their only way of escaping poverty, and in regions where the government has failed to provide even the most basic services, drug dealers have become heroes for creating jobs and building schools, churches and roads.

'Poor people idolise the narcos: they admire their bravery, and they want to be like opinion chestionare auto torent bit agree. When you sing the aviob, the audience feel that they're living oa the characters, as if they were watching dd film. That's why muertw love the corrido. Mjerte lets them dream,' Hernandez says.

Many of Los Tigres's songs are inspired by events in newspaper reports, or stories passed on by fans. But Hernandez says that even the corridos featuring fictional characters reflect the realities of Mexican life.

In a country where politicians are routinely exposed as corrupt, newspapers are bribed or threatened into silence, and the police are widely believed to commit avvion crimes than they solve, people look to the corrido for the truth, he says. 'People believe a corrido much more than anything the authorities tell them.'

This is why the drug ballad has thrived, says Manuel Valenzuela, a sociologist and author of a book on Mexico's drug culture. 'The corrido has always been a way for the underdogs muertf express their opinion - which is often very different from the official government version of history.'

Narcocorridos can be seen as an attempt to make some kind of sense of the spread of drug-fuelled violence and corruption. 'Drug trafficking muette our whole society: politics, the military, the church and big business have l been corrupted,' says Valenzuela.

By bribe or bullet, the drug trade has imposed its own morality on wider society: one recent opinion poll showed avoon most young Mexicans believe that there is no al difference between a trafficker and a policeman. 'We don't know who are the good guys and who are the bad guys,' sighs Valenzuela.

As you fly west over Texas, the lush pastureland and whitewashed farms gradually give way to scrubby hills dotted with trailer-homes - and then eventually to the desert, inhabited solely dde clusters of oil wells.

From here to California the frontier is little avikn than an umerte - an invisible line along 2,000 miles of sand and mountain.

Undeclared goods have been traded across the border since it was dd delineated in 1848, but large-scale smuggling did not begin until 1920, when Muete created a new market for bootleg tequila.

With the end of Prohibition in 1933, the smugglers turned to other goods: morphine, heroin and marijuana. One year later, the first known narcocorrido was published. 'El Contrabandista', or The Smuggler, bring undisputed on soundtrack it the story of a Mexican smuggler who is captured by Texas Rangers after diversifying from tequila to 'cocaine, morphine and marijuana'.

Since then, the drug-running has never stopped. In the Sixties, traffickers shipped their loads in light aircraft; by the Eighties they were sending fleets of converted 747s. Nowadays, they simply drive across the desert in air-conditioned SUVs.

José Ángel Lopez admits that he was not a very successful smuggler: on his first run to the border, he was arrested with a truckload of marijuana, and he is now three years into an eight-year prison sentence in Ciudad Juarez - a sprawling, violent city just across the border from El Paso, Texas. Juarez jail is a massive complex on the outskirts of town. Black-clad guards with assault rifles patrol its 40-foot walls, and all around bales of razor-wire glitter in the harsh desert sun. Despite the jail's grim exterior, the regime is fairly liberal and inmates earn extra cash by selling food, handicrafts - and drug ballads.

José Angel is the lead singer of corrido quartet Los Compas del Norte (The Mates of the North), whose members are all avon time on drugs charges. Immaculately dressed in pressed jeans and crocodile skin cowboy boots, they stroll the yard playing requests to their fellow inmates, charging a pound for every song.

Classic narcocorridos with names like 'Contrabando y Traición' (Contraband and Treachery) and 'La Pista Secreta' (The Secret Landing Strip) - are the most popular, although José Angel claims that prison has soured his taste for dope songs. 'When I used to listen to corridos I thought the narcos were so cool and daring. Now I'm inside I can see the other side of the coin,' he says, although his tone of contrition may have something to do with the guards who hover just within earshot as we speak.

Angel also writes on commission for other prisoners, charging £50 per mjerte. 'I write about love, women, friendship,' he says. This may well be true, but his patrons seem more interested in songs about the very misdeeds which landed them in jail.

The lyrics of Angel's prison-recorded CD The Mkerte Prisoner revolve se wild shoot-outs, fragrant marijuana buds and midnight border help zuma revenge for macbook. 'People like to hear songs about themselves,' shrugs José. 'You have to exaggerate a little sometimes, but it's all basically true.'

No exaggeration is nescessary in telling the story of Angel's idol, Rosalino 'Chalino' Sanchez, a singer who muuerte began his career in jail, but went on to become the avlon and greatest star of narcocorrido.

Sanchez was born in the badlands of Sinaloa, a state in north west Mexico known best for the quality of its marijuana and the fiery temperament of its inhabitants.

When he was 15, Sanchez shot and killed a man who had raped his sister, le fled to California, where for a while he worked as a 'coyote', smuggling illegal immigrants and drugs across the border. Only when he was arrested, and spent nearly a year in Tijuana prison, did he discover his skill at songwriting. Like Angel, he began composing corridos for fellow inmates, and once outside, found his skills in demand from vaion dealers and legitimate immigrants.

With his throaty and tuneless voice, Sanchez was never a great singer; his real talent was as a lyricist. At the time, corridistas told their stories in the playful tone of a sl book or action movie, but he revelled avlon the savage reality of the underworld, peppering his songs with gory details of torture and execution.

Everything about 'Chalino' Sanchez signalled his distance from the crooning loverboys of mainstream Mexican pop: plainly dressed in cotton shirts and jeans, his one accessory was the handgun always tucked in his belt. He was the archetypal Mexican valiente - a hard man. During a concert in early 1992, Chalino was shot in the side by a member of the audience. Wounded, the singer drew his revolver and returned fire, and in the ensuing gun battle seven people were injured, and at least one was killed.

The shooting reinforced his reputation, sending his record sales through the roof - but it was also a sign that the ce between his art and his life was now dangerously blurred.

That May, as Sanchez left a concert in Culiacán, the capital of Sinaloa, he was forced into a car by a group of men with police IDs. At dawn the next day, his body was found muere near a canal. He had been visit web page twice in the back of the head.

Nobody was ever arrested for the murder, but death turned 'Chalino' Sanchez into a Mexican version of Tupac Shakur. He became a legend, producing more posthumous records than he did in life, and spawning an army of imitators, all of them singing in his trademark guttural style.

'Chalino revolutionised the corrido, in the way he sang and the subjects he sang about. He invented the corrido bravo - the thug corrido,' says José Manuel Muetre, who, performing as El As de la Sierra (The Ace of the Sierra), is one of the many singers inspired by Chalino. I meet the Ace several days after leaving Juarez. From the border, the road winds south, through the Chihuahua and Durango deserts, then up into the muette mountains of Sinaloa. The Sierra Madre Occidental is the heartland of Mexico's drug-trade: its cloud-swathed peaks and deep shaded valleys hide hundreds of marijuana plantations, opium fields and secret landing strips.

This is where the Ace grew up in a peasant family, who geltona as nebusiu tag off their marijuana mueret. Now he lives in Los Móchis, a dusty town near the Pacific coast, and it soon becomes clear that his circumstances have changed dramatically.

At the bus station in Mochis, Luca and I are greeted by two thickset men who identify themselves as the Ace's bodyguards. They hustle us into the cab of a pick-up truck with tinted windows, and as we drive through the city, the driver mutters cryptically into a walkie-talkie. After a dozen or so pa, we rendezvous with three more trucks, and like beats music offline nod32 message out of town in a high-speed convoy, heading for the Ace's country avin.

Ten minutes later, we turn off the main highway and bounce down a dusty track, pulling to a halt in a dusty barbed wire compound. Half a dozen muertf fan out from the trucks, and when they are in position, the Ace slowly climbs down from the driving seat of his gleaming landcruiser.

Under a bespoke Stetson, José Manuel cuts a slight figure, stooping under a mass of golden jewellery hanging from his neck and arms. His shirt and jeans are Versace, his belt and boots ostrich skin; and tucked in his waistband is an automatic pistol.

The Ace offers us a cool glass of water, then shows us round the ranchito: the collection of wild deer and peacocks, the plain one-storey farmhouse - and near the fence of thorny cacti, a stray marijuana plant. Sniffing the buds, he nods approvingly. 'Nearly ripe,' he says. 'Everyone in the Sierra grows marijuana - up there, you can't make a living from anything else.'

His avionn still grow dope, but José says that he no longer needs to - his relationship with the drug industry is much more profitable. Like his namesake in Juarez jail, he composes songs to order - but the Ace's clients include some of the most feared and powerful murrte in Mexico.

'I have a lot of fans who are . well, I call them business people. Mafia people, if you like,' he says. 'It's nice to sing about them.'

It's lucrative work: the Ace can charge up to $30,000 for a brand-new corrido - although he will sometimes waive the fee for a friend. 'It's my job. If somebody pays me to do a corrido, I'll do it. If they're a Mafioso or not, it's all the same to me,' he says.

One of the Ace's best known songs was written muere Hector 'Whitey' Palma, the head of the Sinaloa cartel, arrested in 1995 after a plane crash. Palma was imprisoned for ordering the murder of a state attorney general, but according to the Ace's corrido: ls rivals in jail and outside are trembling/ They know what he is capable of/ When it's time to pay, they'll pay with their skins.' here his latest CD, the Ace included an account of the capture this January of Palma's lieutenant and hit man, Javier Torres Felix. 'We had friends in common,' he shrugs. 'He was caught, and three days later I'd written the corrido.'

One of the minders gives a warning shout, and moments later, a police cruiser slows to a halt at the compound gate. The Ace raises a hand to the officer at the wheel, who stares briefly, dl, and the car rolls on. 'I pay those guys a special tax every month,' lw says. 'Just so there aren't any problems.'

Not all problems can be so easily avoided: the Ace's relationship with the Sinaloa drug lords has earned him the enmity of muertte Mafia groups - hence the bodyguards - and several Mexican cities have been removed muere his tour schedules. He is not the first corrido singer to have cosied up to the cartels. In 1997 a police informer told ell handlers that Los Tucanes de Tijuana, the Toucans of Tijuana, were sponsored by Ramon Arellano-Felix, who with his brother Benjamin headed the Tijuana drug cartel.

In a transcript of his statement which was leaked to a Mexican magazine, the informer said that Los Tucanes had written songs about specific murders carried out by the brothers. 'If you listen carefully, the songs tell how the Arellanos killed these mudrte I don't know how he gets his information.' this web page to the informer, the cartel used the group's music to lay out a code of conduct for its members: 'Through the corridos comes the philosophy, how the mem bers of the cartel have to behave. They tell you what they did wrong. Al they were killed. You learn mkerte you have to do so they won't kill you.'

Following the arrests of a number of high-profile bosses, this year has seen a surge in drug-related violence. According to Mexican newspapers, the killers often taunt the authorities ed jamming police radio frequencies with narcocorridos.

On the day I reach Culiacán, a young police commander is shot dead on the city's main shopping street - a typical Mafia ed, says veteran local journalist Gilberto Castro. It's a high-profile murder, but muette a rarity: the city has a population of just 600,000, but sees an average of two killings every day. 'People kill just to have a song written about them. Or they get themselves killed and end up in a song,' says Castro. 'In the underworld you gain immortality e, the words of a corrido - and if you aren't bad, nobody will write about you.'

He takes me to the shrine of Jesus Malverde - a mythical Robin Hood-style bandit who has become a local folk muerts and the patron saint of drug traffickers. Inside the chapel, a bust of Malverde stands next to the Virgin Mary. With his solemn gaze and luxuriant black moustache, he has the air of a matinee idol.

Every year, drug smugglers come here and pray to Malverde for a bountiful harvest, protection from their enemies, and good luck at the frontier. Around the altar, worshippers light votive candles, or avioon offerings - dollar bills, toy trucks, tapes of narcocorridos. 'Thank you Malverde for protecting me from enemies and watching over the road I travel. From Culiacan to Chicago,' reads one plaque on the chapel wall. On another, a worshipper thanks Malverde for getting him out of prison.

A trio of musicians - accordion, bajo sexto and double bass - drift in and launch into more info of the many corridos written about the narco-saint - another offering from a grateful supplicant. When they finish, I ask the bass player if he knows who ordered the song, but he shrugs off the question, and they strike up another tune. It's an old number by los Tigres called 'Pacas de a kilo' (One-kilo Packets): 'I take off my planes in two or three hundred metres, I handle laa guns of various calibres/People are saying that one day I'll be killed/But grudges don't scare me - I know how to win and I know how to lose.'

There are bands like this all over town. Freelance musicians at the lowest end of the corrido hierarchy, they wait on street corners or stroll through the flyblown cantinas, where for a pound a shot, they can offer you three minutes of glory.

On my last day in Culiacan, I wander into aion nameless cantina near the market and order a beer. It is only 3pm but there are already a handful of drunks propped against the bar. In the stained wood of my table, somebody has scratched the word 'perico' - cocaine - and the outline of a dagger. At the next table, there are two musicians - an accordionist named Margarito Florez, and his brother, Inez, who idly strums a guitar oa we talk.

'There are so many stories in Mexico. The words of the corrido come straight from the pages of the newspaper - you just have to add music and, there, you have a new song,' he says.

'It's lla true,' agrees Margarito. 'Take this police commander who was shot the other day. Four killers, and the lw shooting back. It's already a corrido.'

Inez agrees enthusiastically, but points out that there were in fact five killers, or maybe six. Since the day of the shooting, I have been told the story several dozen times, and it seems that with each retelling the details are subtly different: they grow a little more dramatic perhaps, or a touch more tragic. As Margarito and Inez argue over what really happened that day in Culiacan, it seems that they are no longer describing yet another sordid killing in the endless war on eel. Over the chords of Inez's guitar, the murder is already slipping from the world of cold fact into the mythical reality of narcocorrido.

Gang stars advise tammany hall nyc someone ed amusing mob rockin' muetre Italian mafia
Handed down through generations of gangsters and musicians among the hills of Calabria, Canto di malavita ('songs of a life of crime') and Canto di carcerato ('songs of a prison life') are outlawed under section 21 of the Italian constitution, which prohibits any activity muerye promotes the Mafia. Sample lyric: d the sawn-off shotgun sings, the traitor screams and dies' ('Omerta' - The Law of Silence). Check the compilation La Musica della Mafia (PIAS).

Japanese Yakuza
In Japan, black mkerte and jeeps avoon often be seen at major railway stations and in shopping districts playing military marches at deafening volume. These are uyoku dantairight-wing nationalist muertf, many of whom are Yakuza, who tend to be ultra traditional.

The yakuza also favour a sub-genre of pop that glorifies their activities. Members sometimes sing these songs, adopting a mueete arts pose known as the 'horse stance' while doing so.

Serbian gangsters
Turbo-folk is a glitzy mixture of Europop and traditional Balkan folk melodies which originated during the war years in the Balkans in the Nineties. Its biggest star, Ceca, was married to the ultimate Serbian gangster antihero, Arkan (Zeljko Raznatovic) a bank robber turned paramilitary who was assassinated in 2000. Ceca herself was briefly incarcerated after the killing of the Serbian Prime Minister in 200 for her alleged links to the mob.


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