The Gig

The Concert has come and gone!

Total success, ladies and gentleman I'd like to thank you all for your hard work.

As you may know, the reggae band which I found with the sweat of my brow and natural good looks and talent, had their first concert with yours truly. Ironically located in the bar in which I first saw them. It was a symbolic revisit and triumph.

Only two months ago I went to this bar with passing friend Paul McGuire where we navigated the new (to us) social dynamic of a bar. We lucked out and spotted someone we knew and sat with them and I thanked the lord that Paul was not as fond of the portenho habit of selling beer by the liter as everyone else I knew.

We sat there sucking on our cervezas chicas and attempted conversation in the whirlwind of bar noise. We failed at that and I even managed to spill a large glass of beer on Paul that I offered to get him in return for the glass of the bilgy joy juice known as Quilmes that he gave me. Miraculously, a girl there asked for my number (imagine my confusion) but as if to top off the night, I lost it a little while later when my phone was stolen on my way to Salta.

We did, however, notice that the band was kicking.

But all that is in the past. In my triumphant return, I no longer sit with the groundlings, taking in the sonic awe that is Sudaka Roots. I am a Root of Sudaka!

The collusion of the schedules of an Argentine and a musician are pretty vicious. Add a Brazilian being charge of the whole thing and what you get is a show that's supposed to start at 11 on a Sunday night that actually get started around 12:30 on what is technically Monday morning, a day when Nathan has class at 8.

Begin the photos!



As you can see, I'm rocking my Japanese-knickers and european shirt. I am teh international. Also pictures is our Brazilian singer and hatted quasi-chileno argentino. We are doing a little pre-show meditation. Actually, this turned out to be the spontaneous group response to a surprise element in the show. Our paraguayo auxiliary percussionist took it upon himself to pepper our playing with weird ambient sounds from his laptop. If this was mentioned to me or in front of me, it hit the language barrier like a fly on a windshield. Consequently, I missed my entrance. And also, the ambient noise was in a different key than the melody. Whaddup wit dat?

Here be a more full on shot of the band. I hope that no one missed the mind-breaking, culture swapping travesty that is Mario's T-shirt. Mario likes Rage Against the Machine, Immortal Technique and anyone else that claims to represent an oppressed portion of the population. I think that this may be the reasoning behind Mario's selection of an scowling Native North American, although his heritage is primarily African or South American Native. In any case, Mario's blatant disregard for the boundaries of race, geography and culture has emboldened me to adopt dreadlocks. More on this at a later date.

The crowd! I felt like a fucking rock star. They danced, the sang along, they came in great number! Of course, virtually everyone in the forefront of this picture is one of Mario's capoeira students, but hey! Who's counting? And some friends of mine were there too. Picture's courtesy of Swedish camerawoman Klara.

Also, as my father might make comment, my host brother Jos'e came to see the show and as we were setting up, he mentioned to me, look at all the huesitos! Huesito, from the word hueso, means little bones, and actually refers to hot chicks. This word's environment tends to be the kind in which there are no females within earshot so I think it maybe has some sort of like dripping, juicy meat connonation.
And for the close, we sang a Bob Marley song and invited everyone in the club up to sing and dance and to play instruments if they got 'em. A few obliged. The huesitos in this picture would be Mario's attractive girlfriend on the right, and sexy-six pack girl from my capoeira class on the left. As you can see, a show of much more success than I ever accomplished in the US. Trombonists, Buenos Aires loves you.

And when we are done, are we ever done? No. The show finished at around 3 and what does the Porteno do at three oclock in the morning? Sleep? Swear and catch a bus home trying to get in a few hours of rest before the morning comes and makes him pay for his temporal nonchalance?

No. We get pizza.

Sadly, we failed in finding a pizza joint in the neighborhood and were all set up to go a far away barrio that might have acceptable pizza.

Luckily, I thought, the guitarist called off the search and offered a jam session at his house. I accepted instanteously. I am now the graduate of my first 4 oclock in the morning jam session.

And of course, his house was farther away than the original far away pizza barrio.

But it was worth it. Between two guitars, some bongos and a bottle of wine (no glasses) music was made. And it was truly unique. Its not every day that you can sit on a guy's couch in Buenos Aires under scrawlfitti on a wall that says something like "One must live the life of rock and roll forever". They played folklore and tango and even plucked a few blues so I could play along.

I got home at 5:30. I did not go to class at eight. Or eleven.


PS. a video dark somewhat useless of the 31 seconds of the show. Enjoy!