Every hour, the clock tower in the central plaza of Veracruz, Mexico, rings out with the melody of "La Bamba." But this is not the rock 'n' roll version that Ritchie Valens made famous in 1958. The song echoing across the Gulf Coast port city is the original — a centuries-old tune that has been played in Veracruz for generations and is considered by locals to be nothing less than a regional anthem.
"It's our hymn," one longtime musician told NPR, reflecting the deep affection that residents hold for the song and the musical tradition it represents.
"La Bamba" is the most celebrated piece in a genre known as son jarocho, which translates roughly to "the sound of Veracruz." This syncopated, jubilant style of folk music emerged from the multiethnic population that took shape along Mexico's Gulf Coast after the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés established Veracruz as the country's first port in the early 1500s. The music blends European, Caribbean and Indigenous influences into a sound that is unmistakably its own.
At the heart of this tradition is the fandango — a joyous community gathering where people come together to play instruments, sing and dance. Despite sharing a name with the popular online movie-streaming service, these fandangos have nothing to do with watching films at home. They are live, sweaty, all-night celebrations that can stretch well past midnight and into the early morning hours.
While fandangos are more than 300 years old, their popularity is now spreading far beyond the Gulf Coast of Mexico. Communities around the world are embracing the tradition, drawn to its participatory spirit and the sense of collective joy it creates. But for those who want to experience the authentic version, there is no substitute for going to Veracruz itself.
On a Saturday night in mid-August, the oppressive coastal heat had yet to subside as a couple took to a wooden platform to dance. The woman wore a floral dress that fanned out dramatically each time she pounded her heels against the boards, while her partner was dressed in a traditional jarocho straw hat and a tropical shirt soaked through with sweat. The physicality of the dance — the rhythmic stomping, the heat, the exertion — is central to the fandango experience.
Off to the side, a man in a black T-shirt and sunglasses played a quijada, an instrument made from the jawbone of a donkey. He scraped its teeth and slapped the mandible to produce a rattling percussion sound that added texture to the music. The instrument is just one example of the creative, resourceful approach to music-making that defines the son jarocho tradition.
Attendees swilled ice-cold Mexican beer and ate tamales wrapped in banana leaves as the evening progressed. The scene captures the communal nature of the fandango: food, drink, music and dance all intertwined in a single, flowing celebration.
As the night wore on, audience members gradually joined the trio of musicians, transforming what began as a small performance into a massive jam session. The instrument at the center of it all was the jarana, a small eight-string guitar native to the Veracruz region. Its bright, percussive sound drives the rhythm of the music and invites even those who have never played before to pick one up and join in.
The fandango's inclusive structure — where the line between performer and audience blurs — is one of the key reasons the tradition has endured for centuries and is now finding new practitioners around the world. Unlike a formal concert where spectators remain seated and silent, a fandango thrives on participation. The more people who join in, the more vibrant the event becomes.
The spread of son jarocho and fandango culture internationally speaks to a broader appetite for communal, participatory musical experiences. In an era when so much music is consumed through headphones and streaming platforms, the fandango offers something increasingly rare: a chance to make music together, in person, with neighbors and strangers alike.
For the people of Veracruz, however, the fandango is not a trend or a novelty. It is a living tradition passed down through generations, a source of civic pride and a way of life. The decision to have the clock tower bells play "La Bamba" every hour is a testament to how deeply the music is woven into the city's identity.
The genre's origins reflect the complex history of the Gulf Coast region. After Cortés established Veracruz as Mexico's first port in the early 1500s, the area became a meeting point for European, Caribbean and Indigenous peoples. Their cultures intermingled, and out of that mix came the rhythms, melodies and instruments that would eventually coalesce into son jarocho.
Today, that tradition continues to evolve. Musicians in Veracruz and beyond are introducing son jarocho to new audiences, teaching the jarana to beginners and organizing fandangos in cities far from the Gulf Coast. The music's ability to adapt while remaining rooted in its history is part of what makes it so resilient.
For anyone seeking the real thing — the heat, the sweat, the pounding heels, the rattling jawbone, the endless rounds of "La Bamba" — the answer is simple. Go to Veracruz. There, the fandango is not a performance to be watched but an experience to be joined, one sweaty, joyous, all-night celebration at a time.
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