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Welcome to Back of the Napkin, musings from Serviette for the cultured world.
It’s no secret that Serviette has long fostered an interest in exploring areas of tension, places where boundaries become enticingly hazy. On a recent deep dive, we discovered a particularly formidable character—one whose career was marked by the dissolution of traditional barriers, a larger-than-life mythology, and a high dose of glamor. Cue “Bo Mambo” as you read on.
Vocalist Yma Sumac (née Zoila Emperatriz Chávarri Castillo) was born in Peru in the 1920s, surrounded by the Andean mountain air. Sumac was born to be a Hollywood starlet. She quickly rose to fame due to her haunting operatic vocal stylings, imitating the birdsongs that acted as the soundtrack to her childhood. With a range spanning nearly five octaves (the average trained singer sits around three), Sumac soared from rich low notes to dizzying high notes at breakneck speed—a style which she coined “triple coloratura.” She was an immediate hit, winning over audiences with her distinct blend of traditional Peruvian folk music, opera, and jazz as well as with her theatrical stage presence and extravagant look.
Sumac eventually established herself in New York City, where her fame didn’t immediately translate. During this period, she performed at supper clubs, business conventions, and perhaps most deliciously (in Serviette’s estimation) a Greenwich Village deli. According to one magazine writer, one could experience Sumac’s incredible performances “in a back room richly blanketed with the aroma of pickled herring, salami, and liverwurst.” High drama, low ceiling. Today, the equivalent might be a backroom perfumed with a bacon, egg, and cheese—a different kind of aria, equally aromatic.
Throughout her career, Sumac was shrouded in a cloud of mystique. She embraced her role as Incan princess with operatic conviction, performing beside Styrofoam volcanoes and papier-mâché totems, swathed in gowns suggestive of Peruvian royalty by way of mid-century stagecraft. With such unapologetic grandeur, we can only assume she would have delighted in dousing herself in Byronic Hero—equal parts romance, excess, and well-orchestrated myth.
Sumac is representative of the perfect cross-section of Serviette’s identity: a playful subversion of tradition with a splash of camp and more than a hint of glamor. So the next time we’re deep in the lab composing a new release, know that it won’t be to silence. It will be against the backdrop of Sumac’s arresting triple coloratura—a reminder that taste, at its best, is bravura.