At some point in your life, if you live in Venezuela, you come

Host: The evening sun melted into gold and crimson over the small Venezuelan town, the air humming with warm laughter, street chatter, and the faint strumming of strings from a distant porch. A faint smell of arepas and grilled corn drifted through the air — the fragrance of community, of memory.

The plaza was alive — children chasing kites, old men leaning back in wicker chairs, and somewhere near the fountain, a group of teenagers passed around a cuatro — the small, four-stringed Venezuelan guitar, its wood polished by years of hands and heat and heart.

At the edge of it all sat Jack and Jeeny, on a worn stone bench beneath a jacaranda tree whose purple flowers had started to fall like delicate confetti. Between them lay a cuatro, borrowed from a local boy who’d gone to buy sodas.

On the instrument’s soundboard, someone had scribbled in pen:
"At some point in your life, if you live in Venezuela, you come across or own a cuatro. Either at school, either at camp, either at a friend’s house, at a birthday or Christmas or bar mitzvah, you end up with a cuatro. It’s like a must." — Devendra Banhart.

Jeeny: (smiling softly, running her fingers over the strings) “You can feel it, can’t you? The way the wood remembers every song it’s ever played. Like it’s been part of every home, every story.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. The cuatro’s not just an instrument — it’s inheritance. A heartbeat carved out of cedar.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. I love what Banhart said. It’s not just nostalgia — it’s identity. You don’t choose it. It chooses you.”

Jack: “It’s funny. In some places, kids inherit cars, or family businesses. Here, you inherit rhythm.”

Jeeny: “And memory.”

Jack: “And the right to belong to something you don’t even have to understand to feel.”

Host: The wind stirred the branches above them, scattering purple petals across the bench and the cuatro. The sound of another group playing drifted from down the street — quick, percussive, joyous.

Jeeny plucked one of the strings gently — it rang out, sharp and tender.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s never really about the music. It’s about connection. Everyone has their cuatro moment — a wedding, a family gathering, a long night after too much rum.”

Jack: (smiling) “It’s like the country’s soundtrack. Even silence here hums with it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And what I love is how it’s ordinary. Banhart doesn’t romanticize it — he just says it’s a must. Like breathing, like warmth.”

Jack: “Like culture that doesn’t need to shout to exist.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s humble. But alive.”

Host: A boy approached, laughing, holding two glass bottles of Malta. He nodded at the instrument on the bench.

“Keep playing,” he said. “It sounds better when strangers touch it.”

Jeeny laughed, took one bottle, and raised it in salute.

As he ran off, Jack turned the cuatro in his hands, the wood glowing in the sunset.

Jack: “You know, where I’m from, we don’t have this. We have noise — but not music like this. Not something that carries the soul of a place.”

Jeeny: “You do. You just forgot how to listen.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe we traded our instruments for machines that don’t sing back.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I love about this. The cuatro doesn’t need an amp or a plug or even a stage. It just needs people.”

Jack: “And people need something that reminds them who they are.”

Host: The sun dipped lower, and the plaza filled with a warm, amber light. The strumming from across the square picked up — the rhythm of joropo, wild and free, laughter carried on every beat.

Jeeny: “Music like this — it’s how people survive sadness. You can lose everything — money, politics, stability — but as long as there’s sound, there’s spirit.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s rebellion in disguise. A melody against despair.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every country has its instrument of endurance. The cuatro just happens to be Venezuela’s.”

Jack: “And Banhart gets it. He grew up between worlds — America and Venezuela. So when he says it’s a must, he’s not exaggerating. He’s confessing.”

Jeeny: “Confessing that you can leave your homeland, but it never leaves you.”

Jack: “It follows you in sound.”

Jeeny: “In every string you pluck.”

Host: The evening deepened, and lights flickered on around the plaza — small bulbs strung across cafés, illuminating faces, tables, and laughter.

A local musician sat down nearby, tuning his own cuatro. Without a word, he began to play. The notes were light, dancing — like water over stones.

Jeeny closed her eyes.

Jeeny: “Listen. That’s not performance. That’s prayer.”

Jack: “Yeah. You can hear the love in the imperfections.”

Jeeny: “It’s not supposed to be perfect. It’s supposed to be alive.”

Jack: “That’s the thing about folk instruments — they carry fingerprints, not formulas.”

Jeeny: “And hearts that refuse to forget.”

Jack: “You think that’s why every Venezuelan ends up with one?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because holding a cuatro isn’t just tradition — it’s participation in memory.”

Jack: “Like being born into a melody.”

Host: A group of children began to clap along, their voices high and bright, their timing chaotic but pure. The musician smiled without looking up. The song filled the plaza — joyous, defiant, eternal.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about this quote? It’s not about fame or skill. It’s about access — the universality of art. Everyone gets a cuatro moment.”

Jack: “Even if you never learn to play.”

Jeeny: “Especially if you never learn. Because it’s not about mastery — it’s about belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging to what?”

Jeeny: “To the chorus of humanity. To the part of us that remembers music came before language.”

Jack: “So, to own a cuatro… is to own proof that you’re alive.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host: The night settled, soft and forgiving. The stars began to flicker above the palm-lined rooftops. Somewhere, someone struck a final chord, and the plaza erupted in laughter and applause.

Jack looked down at the instrument resting across his knees — small, simple, beautiful.

Jack: “You think something this small can hold an entire culture?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t hold it. It releases it.”

Jack: “Like a heartbeat that doesn’t stop, even when you leave home.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s why Banhart called it ‘a must.’ Because it’s not optional to remember where you come from. It’s survival.”

Host: The lights shimmered in the plaza, casting reflections across the wooden body of the cuatro. Jeeny plucked one final note — a clear, tender sound that lingered in the warm air before dissolving into silence.

And for a long moment, they sat in stillness — surrounded by laughter, rhythm, and the distant promise of more songs to come.

Above them, the jacaranda blossoms fell — soft, violet, endless.

Host: And as the night deepened, the meaning of Devendra Banhart’s words hung gently in the air —

that some instruments don’t just make sound,
they make identity.

That a cuatro is not only a guitar —
but a reminder that heritage can fit in your hands,
that belonging can hum quietly beneath your fingers,
and that even in exile,
the music of home finds you —
because some melodies
are not learned.

They are remembered.