The Mariano Rodriguez Interview
From the sonic soul and meditative mountains of the Primitive Guitar culture, Argentine-based saint of strings Mariano Rodriguez has been on the scene for over a decade and a half, while carrying the cosmic torch of some of his heroes like John Fahey, Robbie Basho, and several others. Having participated in some of the genre’s most critical compositions, such as “Imaginational Anthem, Vol. 7,” “Basket Full of Dragons (A Tribute To Robbie Basho Vol. 2),” and “Ten Years Gone: A Tribute to Jack Rose,” Rodriguez has placed himself amongst the greats, and will go down in harmonious history as one himself.
Tell me about growing up in Argentina. As an illustrator, multi-instrumentalist who plays everything from the Lap Steel to Weissenborn, Melodica, and Shurti Box, how did you initially get into music, specifically, the guitar?
I had a very happy childhood in Argentina, even though I grew up during the military dictatorship of the 1970s. I lived in a town called Longchamps, which means “long fields” in French — a place where the suburbs of Buenos Aires blended into the rural countryside. My father had a small workshop in the back of our house where he built Hi-Fi audio equipment. I remember he would make us little electronic toys from leftover components, and things like audio oscillators or tiny walkie-talkie-style transmitters. His workshop was filled with records he used to calibrate and fine-tune the systems before selling them. My grandfather had been a bandoneon player in a tango orchestra. Those two worlds — technical audio craftsmanship and tango music — were my first real encounters with sound and music. It was also a joyful and adventurous childhood, full of nature: camping trips, fishing, bike rides, and horseback riding. All of it shaped a bright and lasting sense of wonder that still lives in me today. As a child, I attended a Catholic school with an orchestra. That’s where I started playing the clarinet. At the same time, I was taking classical guitar lessons from a teacher in my neighborhood. Around that time—I must have been about 10 or 11 years old—I was really into jazz and Argentine folk music. But it wasn’t until I got to high school, coinciding with the return of democracy in the mid-’80s, that I started playing electric guitar in garage bands. We were influenced by groups such as MC5, The Stooges, Velvet Underground, and Sonic Youth.
I’m curious to learn how this specific instrument spoke to you, and the critical connection you’ve made with the likes of John Fahey, Jack Rose, and Robbie Basho, to name a few.
I discovered John Fahey’s music during a trip through the Atacama Desert in Chile, in the mid-’90s. But it wasn’t until I moved to Patagonia in 2003 that I started playing acoustic guitar. In those days, my wife and I lived in a small cabin by the lake inside Nahuel Huapi National Park. I didn’t have space for amps or pedals. The natural environment of the Patagonian forests led me, very organically, to pursue a more acoustic, more contemplative kind of music. I’ve always believed that your surroundings shape any creative process, whether in music, literature, or the visual arts. At that time, it was difficult to find Primitive Guitar albums in Argentina, so I began downloading whatever I could through Soulseek. The only Fahey CDs I owned were “Return of the Repressed: The John Fahey Anthology,” which I bought at Tower Records in 1994, and “The Epiphany of Glenn Jones,” which a journalist friend shared with me. What captivated me most about Fahey’s music was how he managed to turn the guitar into an orchestra all on its own. He made very complex musical ideas sound simple, almost natural. I also discovered that the acoustic guitar, when held against the chest, allows for a deeply physical connection—something I never felt playing electric instruments. In Argentina, the guitar tradition is tied to nylon strings and classical or folk repertoires, and alternative tunings are hardly used. So it took me a while to decode those resonances and grasp the depth of sound in both Fahey and Basho. Plus, 25 years ago, there wasn’t much information available online, so understanding the logic of open tunings was a slow, almost artisanal process. That special sound when the strings vibrate sympathetically was simply hypnotic to me. I discovered Jack Rose on MySpace. I’m a big fan of all his solo work and also his albums with Pelt. I feel something similar with C. Joynes’ music: their energy is so contagious that I can’t listen to a full album without feeling an almost physical urge to pick up my guitar and start playing halfway through.
I understand you participated in some highly regarded comps over the years, such as “Imaginational Anthem, Vol. 7,” “Basket Full Of Dragons (A Tribute To Robbie Basho Vol. 2),” and most recently “Ten Years Gone: A Tribute To Jack Rose.” What do these guys mean to you both as a person and a musician?
Participating in guitar compilations has always been a deeply motivating experience. In Argentina, there are very few of us following this path—I don’t think there are more than eight or nine musicians—and that’s why being part of projects like these represents a valuable opportunity to connect with artists who, although geographically distant, are very close artistically and spiritually. In the case of “Imaginational Anthem, Vol. 7,” I was invited by Hayden Pedigo, someone I greatly admire for his generosity and his innovative approach to the guitar. Along with William Tyler, they represent a more carefree, even playful side of guitar soloing. Being included on that record was a clear sign that I was on the right path. Also, sharing space with musicians I deeply respect, like Dylan Golden Aycock, gave me a powerful boost that, to this day, continues to motivate me more than ten years after the release. “Basket Full of Dragons (A Tribute To Robbie Basho Vol. 2)” was a different but equally intense experience. The album was curated and produced by Buck Curran, a passionate enthusiast and a great advocate for contemporary guitar. Taking part in that tribute helped me connect more deeply with Basho’s work, whose music carries a very particular spiritual dimension: sometimes powerful, other times subtle, but always present. From that recording on, I had developed a greater interest in the 12-string guitar and its expressive possibilities. Lastly, “Ten Years Gone: A Tribute to Jack Rose” holds enormous sentimental value for me. When I discovered Jack’s music in the early 2000s, I felt I wasn’t alone—that there were other musicians scattered around the world carrying on, in their ways, the legacy of Fahey, Basho, Peter Walker, and other pioneers. Participating in that compilation introduced me to Joseph Allred, who embodies the most spiritual and transcendent side of acoustic guitar in the 21st century. The depth of his sound, the serenity on his face as his hands weave dizzying arpeggios and intricate melodies… It’s simply captivating. There’s a deeply moving honesty in his music. I hope to see him live someday. I’m content with the videos he uploads weekly to his Instagram and occasional concert recordings on YouTube.
As much as rock and roll is a lifestyle, the Primitive Guitar, without comparison, is a poetic practice and meditation you only get better at. When did this particular world of sound and culture first strike you, and how much has it impacted your life and career?
I discovered the world of Primitive Guitar gradually, almost as if I were encountering a language I already knew but hadn’t yet learned to speak. There wasn’t a single epiphany, but rather a series of small impacts that, over time, started to outline a path.
One of those key moments happened during a trip through the Atacama Desert in Chile, in the late ’90s. I remember listening to Fahey’s music while crossing that vast, barren landscape and feeling an immediate connection between the sustained, resonant sounds of his guitar and the silent vastness of the surroundings. It was as if the landscape and the music mirrored each other. Like the music wasn’t just heard—it was inhabited. What drew me in was a way of playing that seemed to come from another place, not just geographically, but emotionally, spiritually, even mythologically. It was music that wasn’t trying to impress, but to say something true. When I first heard Fahey or Basho, I sensed they weren’t playing to prove anything, but to remember something. Over time, I understood that this approach wasn’t just an aesthetic but a way of being in the world—a way of dwelling within sound. Primitive Guitar isn’t about technique or virtuosity; it’s about intention, texture, space, and silence. It’s an exercise in listening before it is one of playing. For me, it helped slow things down. To realize that sometimes one well-placed note can say more than a hundred. Musically, it gave me a compass: today, everything I do, from composing, recording, improvising, or just playing at home, is shaped by that sensitivity. It’s a practice, which the question says, ‘only improves with time because it doesn’t seek perfection, but depth.’
Before your most recent effort, “El meteoro que azotó la ciudad,” you released a few other titles such as “Nampelkan” and “Praise The Road.” Tell me about those earlier pieces, and how much you’ve evolved as a solo musician over the last decade and a half, or so.
“Nampelkan” and “Praise The Road” are albums born in very different moments of my life, and that’s reflected both in their sound and their approach. “Nampelkan” was a solitary record, recorded at home with limited technical means. When I listen to it now, I recognize many imperfections—in both the playing and the audio—but I also sense a raw honesty that, beyond its lo-fi character, still holds value for me. There’s something genuine in that nakedness. The title “Nampelkan” comes from the Mapuche language—the indigenous people of Patagonia—and means “to travel to distant lands.” It describes what that record was for me: an inner, intimate journey without a map. “Praise The Road,” on the other hand, marked a turning point. It was the first album where I decided to pay special attention to sound quality. I upgraded my home studio with better microphones and used a guitar specially built by Eduardo Gismondi, an Argentine luthier. The mixing and mastering were done by Spanish guitarist Víctor Fuertes in a studio in León, under the supervision of Kyle Fosburgh for the U.S. label Grass Tops Recording. That whole process resulted in an album with which, for the first time, I was satisfied with the audio. It’s also an album centered around the theme of travel, but from a more open perspective toward the landscape. It’s a record that views the road as a physical movement, and a mental and emotional space. That’s where I began to explore silence and dynamics more deeply, and to let go of this “closed composition” idea to allow the music to breathe and flow more naturally. Over the last fifteen years, I feel my greatest evolution is how I listen. Today, I try to play fewer notes, but with more weight. I’ve learned to leave space by accepting mistakes and playing from the body. I’m no longer so concerned with whether something is technically right or wrong, but whether it’s truthful and there’s a real intention behind it. Ultimately, I’m searching for authenticity. I believe that searching for the essential—which also carries a spiritual dimension—has truly shaped my path as a solo musician.
Jumping ahead, what was the overall process and approach to writing and recording “El meteoro que azotó la ciudad” in comparison to previous works? What were you most eager to express and explore with this material? Tell me a little of the backstory to tracks such as “Mirando el cielo,” “Un nuevo amanecer,” and “El mirador,” as well as working with folks like Nicolas Almo on the album.
“El meteoro que azotó la ciudad” is a brief but very deliberate album. It emerged at a time when I felt the need to condense everything I’ve been exploring over the years into a more compact format, almost like small sonic vignettes. Unlike previous works, which perhaps leaned toward a more expansive approach, the focus was on synthesis: saying a lot with little, finding emotion in the minimal, in resonance rather than the note itself. The process was very intimate. I recorded the album in Patagonia, surrounded by the landscape that always filters into my music. I used 6- and 12-string acoustic guitars, a Weissenborn, and an old ’50s lap steel I bought on a trip to Nashville. I aimed to work with brevity as a structure without losing depth. Each track lasts around two and a half minutes but is designed to open a different kind of time—a more internal one, like a solitary walk or contemplation of a natural phenomenon. The pieces “Mirando el cielo,” “Un nuevo amanecer,” and “El mirador” were born precisely from that feeling of being attentive to what’s happening around you. They don’t have an explicit narrative but do carry an intention: to pause, observe, breathe. They appear simple in form but have subtle layers that invite close, attentive listening. Collaborating with Nicolás Almo was invaluable. We had already worked on my previous two albums together, “La ciudad que descansa sobre las espaldas de un monstruo dormido" and “Éxodo.” I chose to work with him again for mixing and mastering because he understands the sound I’m going for at this stage in my music. Just as I worked with Marcelo Belén for the compilation tracks or with Víctor Fuertes for “Praise The Road,” I always look for the person who best fits the audio style and sensitivity each record needs. Nicolás understands that quest and brings a lot of subtlety to the table. I’m happy with the release we did with Prius Discos: the album came out on a 7-inch vinyl with the original tracks, and on cassette with four remixes by musicians I deeply admire—Federico Durand, Walter Zenker, Pablo Reche, and Estupendo. Far from being simple electronic versions, those reinterpretations open a new universe within the same album, taking the compositions into realms of sound manipulation, drones, and abstract textures. It was a gesture of dialogue between different worlds, which I find deeply enriching.
Is there anything else you would like to share further with the readers?
Yes, thank you for this space and for being heard. We live in times when everything seems to move very fast, and making instrumental, acoustic, slow music in a corner of Patagonia can sometimes feel like swimming against the current. I believe in the gesture that there is something necessary: a return to pause, to deep listening, to simplicity. If any of my compositions manage to accompany a moment of introspection, beauty, or stillness in someone’s life, then it already has meaning for me. I also want to invite readers to keep exploring the vast and generous universe of the Primitive Guitar, where many musicians—some very visible, others more hidden—are doing beautiful things from all sorts of places around the world. I hope these strings continue to build bridges. And if not through music, then by going out for a walk in nature, to listen to the sounds surrounding us. By discovering local artists, living real experiences in this era ruled by the dictatorship of algorithms, and lighting a fire at home, taking off your boots, pouring a coffee or a whiskey at sunset, pressing play on a cassette, or placing a record on the turntable so we can return to those simple rituals, where there’s still room for magic.
