La Casa de la Casa, titan of the Bolivian rock industry, is not a corporate production house. The difference lies in the details: swap the glimmering skyscraper for a pasty one-storey ‘T’, the jet-setting executive for a jet-setting missionary, the love ballads to an ambiguous ‘she’ for love ballads to an ambiguous, asexual ‘He’. (Keep the cross necklace, keep the shot glass, keep the Saturday open-air festivals.) With over 90 percent of Bolivians identifying as Christian, the biggest break for a band is likely to be a gig at the local church.

‘God is cool’, says J.P. Burillo, lead singer and guitarist of Zona Sur’s main Evangelical church, Kairos. With almost half of its membership under 18, Kairos worship services encourage jumping, hand waving, lip-synching and occasionally choreographed steps, and when the pastor takes over, the electric strings take second-in-command.

The right music has the power to extract tears out of a powerful sermon, says Alexander Iturralde, Bolivia’s best bassist and member of its most popular Christian band, Tejilah. Like two of the band’s other three players, he was in a secular band before making the switch, but he says he was never comfortable with the previous crowd of rockers. ‘That phase is already over’, says Iturralde. ‘It’s gone. Now, I’m happy, and I thank God for it. Now, when I play, it’s spiritually rich.’

Few things in Bolivia, though, are immune from politics. The father of Mauricio Salcedo, Tejilah’s drummer, is the pastor of Ekklesia/La Casa de la Casa, and Martín Joffré, Tejilah’s lead singer and one of the country’s only living rock legends, converted a year after his previous group Loukass split up.

‘It’s like, I had these plans of being a rock star, but now I’m Christian, so I’ll be a worship star’, says Burillo, who finds that rockers following the Christian tidal wave ‘Christianise [their] ego.’ He says that becoming a Christian musician, just like becoming a pastor, is a more accepted path now than when he was growing up. The Christian market is the most solid of Bolivia, with Protestants growing in number every year from missionaries and urbanization.

The audience size is amplified by the stagnant non-Christian market. Equinoccio, La Paz’s biggest rock venue, has the same limited crowd of frequenters every week and can’t avoid featuring Christian artists, despite their incongruity with the scene. ‘Bolivians aren’t used to listening, just as they’re not used to reading or to viewing an exhibition’, says Equinoccio’s manager Boris Aranibar. Church sponsorship, then, is strategic. ‘Music is an instrument. There’s something about rock that’s empowering; it allows you to reach many more people. To use rock as a way of getting young people to come to the Christian movement is effective.’

In the biblical book of Chronicles, the tabernacle of David sponsors 24,000 musicians to play 24 hours of worship music every day. The instruments were the loudest of their times – some say the ancient-day equivalent of rock instruments – and the project allowed David to strengthen and extend his empire.

Music also appears before man in the book of Ezekiel, where the devil leads worship with God’s instruments. Some embrace rock’s place in the church, but others, put off by the rocker lifestyle – Kurt Cobain famously said, ‘Get stoned and worship Satan!’ – see proof in this passage that rock is the ‘devil’s music’ and refuse their performances in church. Burillo specifies that the analogy applies to musicians who strive for idol status, aided by ‘whoever has the money to deploy or extend his kingdom’.

He says that he used to compose to please the congregation, but as he was walking home one day, God came to him in a revelation and asked why he had never asked Him for his opinion. Since then, Burillo, who is Kairos’s youth pastor and is reinitiating its rock music school, says he plays for God only and aims to replicate his revelation through music. ‘I hate when worshippers are treated as artists’, says Burillo.

Conversely, other Christian rockers (Iturralde, for example) consider themselves artists rather than worshippers. But artists and worshippers alike can be met with suspicion by secular listeners, some of whom feel that the rock and roll image is compromised or even rendered obsolete by the Christian spirit. ‘Rock and roll is of the street; it’s a way of life’, says Boris Aranibar. ‘[Rock] is liberty, it’s political criticism, it doesn’t defend any position. [But] I think Christian rock explicitly defends a position.’ So, Christian rock is simply not on Aranibar’s playlist.

While less secular listeners may not hurt the industry, Iturralde says he finds the separate label discriminatory. He acknowledges that Christian rockers assume a distinct role and enjoy a special connection with their audience, but he insists that his competition exists beyond religious lines. Tejilah’s lyrics, like those of most highprofile Christian artists, focus more on the message than on God, and the band’s producer has worked with Prince, Collective Soul and Deftones. Even Burillo’s band has stepped outside of its bounds, experimenting with the zampoña, the quena and the charango, all folkloric instruments.

Christian rock is testing boundaries both in the music world and the religious world. When Burillo was playing during a mission trip in the Middle East, he says crowds would gather in awe. He had such an impact that there were moments when policemen threatened to confiscate his guitar. Burillo was drawn away from ‘boring’ Catholic services to the Evangelical church by a ‘lady that sang like an angel’, which led him to where he is today. Now, Ekklesia’s broadcast company, which has a virtual monopoly over Bolivia’s Christian stations, is the siren that captures more secular listeners every year.

‘I don’t know if many people knew Margaret Thatcher’, says Burillo, ‘but the whole world knew who Michael Jackson was. Music has the ability to transcend culture, to transcend languages.’ Burillo explains that Mick Jagger still plays at 68 because music – or worship, as he calls it – is forever. Today, the church’s medium is rock, the sound of the youth. In coming generations, though, Burillo knows the sound will evolve. He says he hopes he will accept the new genres, but he knows that until his eyes close, he will keep strumming his guitar for God.

An interview with Christian Paredes

BX: Who was the first musician that inspired you?
C.P.: The first musician that inspired me was Igor Cavalera. He’s a heavy metal drummer. I liked his energy, what he expressed – it was more original, something you can’t explain, that was larger than life

BX: What qualities do you find are most important in a drummer?
C.P.: To me, solidity is important. A drummer has to be the heart of a band. It’s the rhythm that liberates. Some say the drummer is secondary. But I don’t agree. I think the drummer is on the front line; he’s the one that brings the rhythm. He’s the most important. And he has to create. He has to reach the people, beyond technique.

BX: Were you always a drummer?
C.P.: No, I’ve played a couple of other instruments . . . guitar, piano . . . But I don’t see myself as much of a guitarist or pianist. The drummer persona suits me well.

BX: Were the other members of your family musical?
C.P.: No, and they never supported my career as a musician. My father thought it was just a phase and saw me as a bit of a rebel. Fifteen years after I started playing, my dad finally came to my concert and now he accepts what I do.

BX: Where is your favourite place to play?
C.P.: The Open Air Theatre in La Paz, ‘Jaime Laredo’. I played there once in front of a crowd of 4,000. I was really nervous beforehand but as soon as I started playing, I began to enjoy it.

BX: Do you have any pre-performance rituals?
C.P.: Yeah, I have some Pumas – some shoes I bought in 2005, which I always wear even though they are a bit scruffy. But I don’t drink backstage or anything like that.

BX: How does it feel to represent Bolivia for such a well-known brand?
C.P.: I’m the first Bolivian drummer to represent a brand like Mapex and the truth is that I don’t really know how to handle it. It’s cool. But sometimes it’s a lot of pressure. It is a competitive industry and I’m honoured to represent my country. Things like this show Bolivia is taking its art and culture more seriously

BX: Are there any movements to promote Bolivian music?
C.P.: Bolivia has quite a diverse music scene. There are all sorts of bands, from metal, folk, cumbia and rock-pop to electronic music with loads of covers. But most Bolivian bands are pretty anonymous outside Bolivia.

BX: Why did you choose an English Band name (Hate)?
C.P.: We get asked that question a lot. We chose that name in ’94 because metal comes from England so it makes sense to have an English name. I didn’t help choose the name because I joined the band later. But we sing in Spanish not English. We added the letters SA to be distinctive - Hate SA (which stands for Sudamérica), so that we stand out from other international bands.

BX: Do you think you have a responsibility as a national symbol?
C.P.: Yes, I think so, but it depends on the artist. For instance, there’s a drummer that’s very famous, but he isn’t responsible, on a personal or a public level. So you have to be responsible and always give your best. And only you can do this. Someone can tell you, ‘No, you just have to play well’– but it has to come from you.

BX: You were talking about your teacher?
C.P.: My teacher was Geri Bretel. He plays cumbia. Cumbia is very popular, tropical music. They play it a lot here in preste parties. He plays cumbia, I play metal, but he’s the best drummer I know here – he’s excellent, excellent, and he was my professor.

BX: And do you want to be a teacher yourself?
C.P.: I love teaching. I love it when people don’t understand something, and ask, because it helps me to become a better musician – study more, research something on the Internet, learn new techniques. So I prefer it when someone doesn’t understand something – it’s better for me because it allows me to grow.

BX: How much do you practise?
C.P.: I don’t practise alone much. But I practise all day with my band, so I’m always playing – about five hours a day.

BX: Any final words?
C.P.: Discipline is most important for a musician. But you don’t just have to practise, practise, practise. You have to be active. That’s my advice: be disciplined, and if you want to be a musician, you really have to want it from the bottom of your heart. To me, it doesn’t matter whether you have practise for many years. You have to want it from your heart.

For many well-known Western musicians, success means profit and fame. A stereotypical Western pop star has a handful of number-one hits, with merchandise mounted on the walls of hormonal adolescents.

But for Leonardo Egúsquiza (a regular hit at Sol y Luna as part of the Negringo duo), commerical Yani, or American, music, says more about glamour than genuine musical talent. Moreover, he asks, why should music be defined by its commercial value? For Leonardo, a self-taught guitar maestro who could not afford the conservatoire admission fee, music should be del corazón.

Likewise, the charango movement in Bolivia defies the economical exploitation of music. Talented musicians such as Mauro Nuñez, who composed and performed new pieces all around Bolivia from 1944, and Ernesto Cavour, who founded el Primer Museo del Charango in 1962, have helped re-popularize the small instrument. Its accessibility means it can belong to everyone.

Folk music is an intrinsic part of campesino culture. Music, not money, enriches the campesino children´s inheritance. Learning to sing is as natural as learning to talk and many indigenous rhythms are often inspired by nature. For example, common campesino beats include burrokhatinas (rhythm of donkeys), vallimayu (rhythm of the valley of river) and torokhatinas (rhythm of herding bulls).

Furthermore, music is often played to celebrate nature, such as in the annual harvest celebration. The charango teachers at el Museo de Instrumentos Musicales de Bolivia claim that growing up in the countryside fosters a musical ear because children are not bombarded by urban noise pollution, such as horns, the screeching of cars and blaring pop music. Bands such as Axis of Awesome parody the repetitiveness of this music by showing that the majority of hit singles are based on the same four chords. Conversely, charango players are not limited by their ´best-selling´ formulas. Indigenous folk musicians don´t tune their instruments according to a particular scale. They simply tune by ear.

However, pastoral quaintness is only one side of a darker history to charango music. When the campesinos were employed in the mines, they brought the charango with them. The charango became an instrument of the oppressed, which spoke where words could not. Sometimes, charango music was a cry of anguish, played at funerals. But mostly, it was a form of escapism. Along with aguardiente and coca leaves, music provided release from a long, hard day at the mines, where shifts could be up to twelve hours-long (during which time the miners could not see daylight) for up to four months at a time. Charango songs were upbeat and lively. For instance, kalampeo (a Quechua word which means ‘to tap your feet’ ) originated in the mines.

The relationship between music and miners lived on long after nationalisation of the mines in 1952, when forced labour was abolished, compensation promised and the three principle mines expropriated. Although mining conditions have improved since the 15th century, when African slaves were forced to work as acémilas humanas (human mules), the life expectancy of a miner is still only forty years old. Given such tough working conditions, it is unsurprising that miners’ song lyrics ‘often evoke an idealistic future.

‘Aguas Claras’, by Kalamarca, is a song known to every Bolivian schoolchild.

Aguas claras serán los niños yo seré padre dichoso aguas claras serán los niños tu serás madre dichosa el amor que te ofrezco es illimani que nos proteje en el cielo las estrellas y en la tierra estarán nuestros niños

The children will be bright as water I will be a lucky father The children will be bright as water You will be a lucky mother I´ll give you as much love As the Illimani mountain who protects us Stars in the sky And our children will be on earth.

Throughout Bolivian history, the charango has provided solace to the miners, soldiers and prisoners alike. Bolivian prisoners of war could exchange their poncho for the right to strum away their sorrow at the feet of their jailers. Uncaptured soldiers used it to raise morale and members of the Bolivian army would prepare for battle by slinging a gun over one shoulder and a charango over the other.

But while oppression in the mines and bitter wars have faded into Bolivian history, charango playing remains alive in annual festivals and competitions such as the Congress of Charango in Sucre (which happens in May) and the November festival of Alquile, where prizes are given to both crafstsmen and players. Young stars like Isabel Flor, the 12- year - old winner of the Charango de Oro Festival in Aquile, are preserving its magic for posterity. ‘If great people can do great things, so can we’, she smiles. Despite her talent, Isabel´s potential income as a musician is by no means guaranteed. Leonardo claims that by playing traditional music, he earns just enough to get by, whereas many other folk musicians don’t ask for money at all. After all, music is measured in beats, not bolivianos.