Not as Buenos Aires
The hungry and the hunted Explode Into
rock'n'roll bands That face off Against Each Other Out in the street
Down in Jungleland
Bruce Springsteen, Jungleland
Do not Try to Be a hero , I repeat as soon as I put my feet in the terminal Buquebús of Buenos Aires. I'm surprised they have entered without any check. In fact, even went through migration, which strangely makes things exciting. I think we could safely go outside Cordoba, firing three shots into the back of a business and return back across the pond. The glass shattered place, stoically maintained for a few seconds and then collapse, drowning out the cries of yuppies and guests of the place coming out of those runs where I always porridge were so funny. I would go walking, mingling in the crowd, throwing the gun with the peace of those gangseteres of movies that they come back and get into black cachila stationed at second row. If the police investigation, there was nothing that could incriminate me, I was never in Buenos Aires . I check for the twenty-fourth time the bag, three T-shirts, underpants, trousers, socks, the book "Virgin Suicides." Directions on an envelope is actually my passport and a hundred dollars to fix the neon jungle.
Unlike previous times I travel to Argentina, this is the idea that this is not going to be just an adventure. It is a purely teleological visit: go to Personal Fest -> see Mars Volta -> pass peep some REM. A few days ago the boyfriend of a cousin of mine had told me how good it was spent at the touch of Dave Matthews Band, performed on the same side, no more than a month. Had this notion of presentation, but for some reason I had not moved a hair. Going to touch that never figured in my plans, even counting the fact that by that time my student calendar, and my pocket was quite loose. But I did nothing and I almost forgot about it, until that birthday I started talking to my cousin's boyfriend. I said on the playlist, the swing of the drummer, Tim Reynolds is old-looking, how they supplied the absence of the saxophonist, who died not long ago. I listened to everything with a sense of strangeness, like a prisoner who is told everyday affairs, could not help feeling those stories of freedom and abstract, too distant. The sadness came over me once back home, while digesting the number of sandwiches industrial Gulls that I had eaten, it was a reproach for past habérseme, even for simply have missed. No, what I really fucked things is that I did not care too much. It was the sadness of that friend who is leaving to call it, of that song that fails erizarte skin of mine that you liked that you cross the street, talking to her staying and found much uglier than I remembered. Everything was a similar fear that was beginning to feel for The Mars Volta. The latest albums, although the latter is fairly well-are far from the height of the first two, leaving the keys to the house to Omar Rodriguez Lopez, a type that no one person manipulating the reel is too the bike .
compared with the first touch of the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall insurance is somewhat exaggerated, but at least bounded for my group of friends, in a context in which MTV was the only comparable standard-at least for us, ignorant children without older siblings of good taste, "the first time we saw Mars Volta had a similar hinge effect. Were the deliveries of the MTV Latino and perhaps in our homes every other prize invented listless expected to win it Shakira, Juanes, or bag of smoke like that, when Zack de la Rocha introduced the band's appearance seventy (Afro, open shirts, jeans so tight they seem tattooed on her thighs). One is that presentation and was not about other presentations are substantially higher than the band of El Paso, but that performance was us so intense, so different from everything we knew, we could not process it, was installed as a trauma, not knowing if it was good or bad. The next day, at about 7:30 am we all went to the same class, and without saying even hello, we looked at our eyes and said exalted "yes, I also saw" . From there, the idea of \u200b\u200bseeing them live, even be that dark to Cedric Bixler removed his glasses, had become a founding myth among us, something against which we considered too distant, almost impossible. Now, after calling George and coordinate a meeting (University Library, Santa Fe and Callao), fear de un brazo con poros cerrados comenzaba a invadirme de nuevo.
Camino por la calle mirando para muchísimos lados porque tengo el I-Pod al mango y temo que no escuche un auto y me atropelle sin más, con esas cebras que a diferencia del respeto que se le tienen en Uruguay, los porteños se lanzan como leones hambrientos. Hay algo que está mal. Lo presiento, el corazón me late en la muñeca, el bruxismo y un tic a la altura de la mandíbula amenaza con dejarme completamente desdentado. La sensación de peligro se vuelve inminente, y pronto comprendo que se debe a cuatro cosas:
1) Haber dormido cinco horas of the last forty-eight. During the trip I was overdrawn, unable to sleep, using the latest download of the sympathetic system to read my eighty facets of The Virgin Suicides. Recently I gave the last ten minutes, so I was between a dream state and waking a bit disorienting. Things seem to be on the edge of the thoughts seem to exploit you in the face, you are always a few steps to mourn, shit of laughter or fit a piñazo someone, without much idea of \u200b\u200bwhy 2) The entire trip I was listening music. This Heat, the younger sister, Bruce Springsteen, Funkadelic, Sex Pistols. I have not heard a sound man since I came to the port city, so everything seems sunk to a strange feeling of unreality, as if only four of my five senses had taken the Buquebús. In a silent film, the lack of sound seems to flatten the image. In the case of taking your life covered by a soundtrack, the environment, rather than mute, seems to be spoken by another, generating between the city and the head of one, that other strange feeling that there is cinematically to watch a movie with problems of lip-sync
3) The previous point, adding that all the way to Córdoba this music by Johnny Rotten and Co., for the first time, as happens with a person who tends to understand things too late, I realize the size of what it says Greil Marcus in Lipstick Traces, about the first time you hear songs like those. Greil Marcus said that it was not simple rebellion, was something that puzzled and even frightened, something contrary to what people thought if this was actually happening, as one sees an explosion, or a catastrophic car crash, not daring to move just watching out the bloodied bodies of metal accordion. It is difficult to hear and imagine Bodies in 1977. It really is a fucking song so fucked still be uncomfortable-especially-Vázquez, especially if you listen from the perspective of their own language (never going to impress us as much as the English at that time because it is not the same listening She do not want a baby That looks Like That / I do not want a baby That looks Like That / Body, I'm not an animal / Body, an abortion , which in English). After the Pistols come Jesus Lizard, and some few metal bands that speak Norwegian babies fuck the trachea, but from a historical perspective, that is so screwed up it is difficult to imagine what would happen if you put it up high-volume, Park in a house in Miramar.
4) Buenos Aires itself, from the same hysteria, to a tiny, neurotic Montevideo, is a daunting city. This need to find the other's desire, as opposed to Montevideo, which seems more than anything scream No! at every turn, can upset enough to one. I climb into a taxi and crossed the 9 July. The street is so wide that for a moment, one feels that he is closing in on itself like a book, crushing a unsuspecting ant. In turn, the car moving at sixty miles per hour on the street feel a hundred and twenty, furrowing tits three meters across, crowned in comedy magazine posters in many buildings. Thus, half-asleep as I am, for a moment I tremble at the idea that a giant poster of the V Florence come alive, destroying City on its way in the style Motran.
The driver is not very good. I'm staring at a spider that is hanging in the back of your hand. The other day I saw Eastern Promises . Very good movie. Mortessen it works like a little clock to Cronenberg. I think of that extra stuff that came with the DVD, a mini documentary about prison tattoos, in which semiological were cut, explaining the meaning of the most common. Precisely, the inventory appeared the spider, in the case of walking up meant that the thief was still committing crimes, and if I walked down, and had retired. Let's see, in walk down here, I remain calm, the rate is not going to do anything,
Did I say that? The semi
waking state I have doubts whether what he was thinking out loud, but the driver is unfazed, which means it probably has not said anything, or that the guy made the idiot, to get even later, to known. In a random street in Santa Fe say that I got off, and the guy tells me a friendly "Are * pesos, maestro" (* I forgot as it was). I give him the silver, and miscalculating the conversion of currencies, I realize that I left him about twenty-Uruguayan pesos tip.
If it were me, would have continued listening to music, but the I-Pod ended leaving me alone, having been discharged the whole battery. Buenos Aires
now becomes a three-dimensional city.
road a bit and I'm getting into some galleries and bookstores. Seeking drugs History (all three fat volumes) of Escothado, but nobody has. New jersey is a Chicago, but I think it's kind of expense, for the other things I have thought about buying. Activity in Fifth Avenue and I drool with discs out there. NEU! 2 , Thank you for Mental Illness, The Modern Dance ... I dream of trains ora braking effort!. I can not hide my excitement at the edge of piss, but prices are violent, and all things considered, I could buy something via internet and I would much cheaper. After twenty questions ask the guy, ask him to give me the name of the store and asks me if I'm there. I say no, and it is also the type of Uruguay, but strangely, does not talk anything about that place. Abraxas , shop. I'm walking, seeing as the album cover of Robyn Hitchcock is starting to become increasingly smaller as I move away, like a girlfriend that is lost in the train from my platform.
I asked two veterans on Bond Street and nobody knows me clear instructions. I walk a little more and I see two mines who looked to be fans of Miranda!, and showing that my target is still pretty tight, I'd say with the naturalness of who goes there twice daily.
is a Thursday, but I remember the Bond Street fuller. The last time I was gone, it was a swarm of emos, darks with orthopedic boots, eager kitsch minitas a star tattooed on his neck. Now, at least half past five late-there is almost no one, two fat hairy Iron Maiden T-shirts and Megadeath, a veteran face of ephedrine have been killed, three female high school students to start eyeing a tie still anticipatory piercings, laughing, and two common types, without anything to qualify. The shops remain more or less the same. Seeking a T-in other years, purchases of clothing almost exclusively carried out in this gallery, "but soon discovered that there is nothing that interests me is why I put myself out to be a message that goes far beyond merely Clothing: T-shirts are the same as always, those messages funny, eloquent, witty, I always liked to carry, but now I do not generate anything more, I look at the designs with some discomfort, like someone looking at his hair style photos too tied to a particular time. Step through the galleries and I still feel a strange sense of decay, but soon beginning to think that maybe is not the Bond Street, but I who changed. I want to buy a shirt for my sister Goo, but they only have large. In a record store I buy at a good price on Funeral, Arcade Fire. I'm almost giving up, when I go to a comic shop arty I had always liked. Store In a chick of about thirty-something asks me if I was looking for something special, and replied without much hope, "Some of Julie Doucet." La tipa leads me to a corner of the store and then take off "New York Journal," another book that I remember and one of the newspapers, but organized as a calendar, with three hundred sixty-five days that detailed pointillism almost baroque that characterizes the Canadian. He had already bought almost without noticing the price a liadísima edition of "The Society of the Spectacle" and the price of books Doucet discourages me a little. As I tell him how much he had searched the Canadian material, the woman asks me "You're not Argentina, not it." (When three people in one hour you wonder if you're abroad, surely you're doing something wrong.) I reveal my source, and says he always wanted to go to Uruguay, that in fact the store owner is Uruguayan, and always told to go with it. I keep half crossed, with a sense of prodrome to a withering attack panick, and say some erratic mean things about the differences between Buenos Aires and Montevideo, and Uruguay need to visit their own standards, having to go city plan, rather than tourists, to fully appreciate it (trying to make a mental review of my previous post, but long disjointed sentences very unclear). I leave the room and go back inside, to ask if by any chance have the "Please Kill me" "no, do not, but they have left one called" Please eat me ", which is about hardcore vegans, or something -style, and to offer to put my book in one of their trays. La tipa accessed without any problems and ask me how I sell it. I answer "to price that you think you, I will not back here, I will not claim any money. " As soon as I throw my response, I see that phrase as very dramatic, almost fatalistic, and the chick I say "well, not so bad, hey." I say that puts an extremely affordable price, and decides to mark it to fifteen dollars. I tell you if it looks good to me also sounds good. I say goodbye and the chick looks at me like a freak, looking at the books and compare the type of flap Black Box, which sat on a step and looking to the side seems a little more secure, hopeful, and serene. I hope
Jorge in University Library. It's my third time there and confirmed ends my guess: Libraries and University, are to literature what are the movies Blockbusters:
Mountains and mountains of anything.
Not only is uncomfortable as a library, but tend to fill the eye with a bookshelf with fifty copies of this book by Paul Auster, while from Bukowsky, that we are not talking about Mad Reasons inconseguible , de Alencar Pinto, have only (with difficulty) Women and the path of the loser. The rest, shelves and shelves of self help books, editions packages of the best photographers, art and design books for tourists without much imagination, a literature section that is Argentina Sabato twenty thousand books, and only two of Lamborghini.
Angered by this, I am prepared to wait for George at the door when I meet him, empilchado clerical clothing.
grabbed down and we had a few beers at a bar too familiar. Bring a good bite, courtesy of the house, and as I take, I feel that for the first time that day things are sorting themselves, and who leaves settle a mass. As if they had brought to Buenos Aires in a blender, so let it stand in the refrigerator.
The Remains of the day goes fast: subway, bus to Flores, Jorge house, a family of Jorge, delicious sushi ever eaten at Japanese restaurant hidden, play count Jews in Flores, short break, night in San Telmo.
It's early, but I tell George that unless we move to San Telmo at about 0:30, I'd probably fall asleep or fainted in the room. Jorge's car plows through a Buenos Aires pretty fast still half asleep, half awake (as I relied on the belt). Jorge kept strictly beatlero fascism, my choice of music on the car is limited between Macca, Lennon and Harrison. True to my tastes, I choose the All Things Must Pass and I tell him, just hurt that the Beatles without George Martin would not have been anyone.
San Telmo is quiet, it's still relatively early and is only exulting in the main square. Wandered the streets and ended up in a bar called Libido, libido that really has nothing, lost in a corner, empty, with an air of Edward Hopper's paintings. The price is fine, Jorge calls me a Stella Artois and Jameson. The pure malt I became a fetish in recent months. The waiter arrives with a loaded ultra glass, which by far exceeds all standards in terms of measurements, which is very good news. As I take, the body relaxes me. I've realized that everything I do is get better if I have two whiskeys above. That speech sounded drunk, but really, things take another order. Happiness and sadness, excitement and neglect, laughter and seriousness, playfulness and intellectual, everything is better, has another dimension with some whiskey above. D. Day
On the way to Personal Fest, the crowd pretty well fixed hosts is interspersed with rolling, regardless dressed in black, which makes them look like a cross between Old fans crazy and My Chemical Romance. They are a foreign body, at least for the profile you would expect based on the bands that will play. It is here that at some point our paths diverge, and then tell me that, a few blocks, there is a touch of Mice Parade. We had arranged to meet with friends from Montevideo at the door: Rabid Fish, The Baron of the lagoon and the capsule, were staying at the dubious O Rei , hotel thirty pesos a night. As expected, the kids do not arrive on time and we have to get, for fear that the Volta start without us. On the road for the first time I meet with Hiram, the Uruguayan singer Psiconautas that, before saying hello ask me if I have joint, serving a recognizable gesture formed by the arc between the forefinger and thumb .
caching in the entry I wonder if I take drugs with me, and for a moment I say "I have a pair of opium suppositories in the ass, if you want revisame" but I prefer to make it easy and say "no." "Better, then," I answered the security.
I offer the headband tie, but I do not accept. Soon rare pink and purple colors becomes primary.
Jorge and I try to take a place as we can in the crowd that throng waiting for the Mars Volta show. Behind us, in another scenario, Emanuel Horvilleur sings that it can not be with her, would do something better with his sister. I'm surprised however, at such sissies, no reactions of any violentsa particularly those who are waiting for Bixler, Rodriguez and company.
I meet a second time to Hiram, who is blown because the gut is not causing any effect. Hiram, All stories begin and end with "was / we re entripado / s" . The Psiconautas, with MAOIs , are those guys that make your body a dissecting table itself, they eat or take anything that grows the grass, and that sooner or later, this rate will become martyrs of psychedelic studies on the human brain. Hiram in particular, is like a child, but stoned. While my experience with Tripero not usually the best, with Hiram the issue continues to maintain a playful aspect that never ends up entangled with mystical treatises, resulting in its crash very entertaining stories in and out of your head. A few hours later, I find with my friends from college, and I count the surreal journey into the Buquebus at three in the morning, playing a Tetris Hiram and shouting "This is no Tetris, this music and were not the original Bonus !!!", and then completely entripado, hundred and fifty dollars being spent in the little machine's Elaida Metal Slug Isabel. Trumpets
duel with mariachis accents open the show, appears Omar Rodriguez Lopez and Cedric, with curls that passed the limit of what forgivable, while reaching back half. The band begins with Drunkship of lanterns. In a series of well coordinated movements came to the second row. Throughout the topic (about half an hour), the People avalanches become a real threat, where one's life seems to really put into play. You end intellectualizing these waves, embedded within certain sequence as Papillon in Devil's Island. At times I put up, but at certain points, the pressure-both back and ahead, threatening to crush my rib cage, beating my ribs and let everything that is covered by them as a cake smashed in his box. The intense sun does not help, and I have to see how I can achieve with glasses that fog up my sweat and others. At the end of the track and start Viscera Eyes, I need to go back a little. My face is completely dislocated, and people are me away, for fear that the attack or they throw up. A safe distance I can appreciate the touch. It is a particular concert. I seem to process things differently, not incorporated aurally, but everything remains bound by ties of visual images that are tattooed on my brain, like the figure of Omar Rodriguez Lopez reflected in the hype and quivering with every stroke, Cedric Standing on an amp like a pitbull chewing a few blankets hanging from the lights. People are excited, cry, you know the lyrics deranged types. Viewing the public, people recognize as a very sincere, of those people who hang with their own, without worrying about what the new Herzog movie, or what does or does not say the new note of the pitchfork. In a world where hipsters grow like a plague, the guitar solos will save the world.
The touch ends and so soaked and satisfied me reeling back to a rest area where I find myself with Hiram, who, completely gone through sweat like me looks at me with eyes to come out of their sockets and I said water , do not have water, I'm dehydrating !!!!. Toca
Bloc Party, but I'm too busy to restore my vital functions. By pure chance, I meet my friends. Rabid Fish greet and I find talking to Ariel Minimal, who is going to extend a nice bare franciscana. Rabid Fish tell me who took the same subway, standing talking to Ariel from El Loco Abreu.
After a few laps, we hope to REM, having to watch on giant screens in the sad spectacle of Kaiser Chiefs, with a fat man in his attempts to rally people seem so ineffectual as a leader among a pack of Bariloche horny assholes. The touch of REM
sack a few things clear. I went reading the summaries of that presentation on several blogs. Unlike them, I was excited, let alone I was on the verge of tears, but I admired the presentation from another point of view, one technical, envy on which is the giant frontman Michael Stipe. Never in my life have I seen someone so amazing cover of the stage, his every move, until the minimum arching eyebrows was part of a megacoreografía, enveloping all who were watching. Objectively, Stipe opened the perfect itinerary demagogue and expanded resources to points never before seen, but for some reason, that was not uncomfortable, until you got to share their hopes on that promise so diffuse, but at least it is a comfort- of a different world on the shoulders of Barack Obama (it was to put a picture at that time, candidate, on the big screen.) At that time management and space lies the difference between the demagoguery of Stipe, if not credible, unless it is captivating (like the good demagogues, whether heroes or dictators), and the fat of the Kaiser Chiefs. Stipe smiled and fell off the stage, at times I came to give something of fear, thinking that we were all at their mercy, if you wanted, well would have required a human sacrifice and a few others had been filed with stoicism particular . Ends
touch and go walking, crossing with a guy who could have coped with Henry Rollins. The guy looks at me and excited me yells "Essssa, Suicide." At first I think that is part of an intimidating scream, but then I realize that relates to my shirt. We were talking about the first time we hear Frankie Teardrop, and the guy tells me about his past habits darks, its fanaticism of Einsturzende Neubauten ink showing his scars to the sympathetic symbol of the band. He commented that sympathetic situation that I described in an old post , and shits laughing loudly. I realize now that has all my tastes, but as muscle mass, everything I do or I like it more than enthusiasm, excited howling every time I mention an album of Einsturzende or Nick Cave. We said goodbye, and I realize that for the first time someone asks me if I am not from another country. Music is a , I repeat for the inside, and there I find the capsule, complaining of seven dollars to get a bottle of water.
On leaving the tap we met with other members of Exquisite Corpse. Morfar want something, but strangely there is no Libertador Avenue bar, pizza or whatever it was open. We ended up going to a Mc Donalds. Among the new people that we added, there is a strange man with glasses who speaks in a low voice at any time without showing any expression. He tells me he can get me a substantial discount at McDonalds, and I follow the stream (without much hope). Talk to the cashier, and after showing her a card with that chill replied only that the cashiers have expired long ago. He explains that it is Uruguayan, who works at Mc Donalds. He says with confidence, do not look at the chick eye, but an indefinite part of his visor. Without ever raising his voice, this man takes a strange lens importance, like those Japanese Sensei who despite his size, they are anticipated as mortally dangerous. Indeed, the cashier will ask forgiveness ends and the type we reached the burgers, complete serenity. After the incident tell a friend, I quoted a song by Fish, with whom they had been for less than three hours: The more screams, less is heard.
Sunday morning as I ate George. I had to go to about three and we were seeing how a black family was beaten Frenchman David Nalbadian. Jorge
me to the terminal Buquebús, leaving open the doors between the two rivers, so that anyone can visit when you want.
On the boat I plug in the I-Pod recharging. I hear the Born to run Bruce Springsteen. It's an album exaggerated to the absurd, but has a market share inevitably epic that I find captivating. Jungleland possibly one of the most bizarre ever made. Everything is epic. One can when washing a mattress and when I hear it feels a hero. Especially in that way going into the saxophone and piano, especially in that part that The Boss said in a trembling voice
Beneath the city two hearts beat Soul
engines running through to night so tender In a bedroom locked
In whispers
Refusal of soft surrender And Then
Puzzled, I look at how Montevideo slowly approaches the window. I'm finishing Virgin Suicides, I have a few facets. I check a bag in which I delightfully scented soaps Mary. A two year old grabs me by the hand, and I will leave, not knowing much to do, because my mother side is asleep.
I'm finishing those last veneers, with the boy's hand pressing my thumb, listening to Bruce that
A real death waltz Between what's flesh and what's fantasy And the poets down
here Do not write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all Be
And in the quick of the night Reach for Their
They
moment And try to make an honest stand
Wounded But They wind up
Not Even dead Tonight in Jungleland
seeing how the sun goes down and the sea becomes argento, or rather, gray
