6. Beyond the Capital
It’s time for another journey – this time Maxi has invited me to Villa Riachuello to see Favalli in action, in a rehearsal, since their big show – a duel release with another band, Bratva - collides with my journey to La Plata. I clamour onto a bus, and press myself against the glass, anxious not to miss my stop. It is dark. Eventually, near a large structure (I later find it is the Autodromo de La Ciudad), I get off and meet Maxi.
We walk through the streets and cut through a park on the way to Maxi’s bandmates' house. Some of the paths in this region are quite badly damaged, and the drainage of water is not always working properly. We continue on and arrive at a house where a number of Maxi’s bandmates are waiting for us. There are three band members present; Maxi of course, who plays bass and sings; Nicolas Ortiz on guitar and his brother Facundo Ortiz on the drums. Here too is Martin, who helps out with translating when the guys speak Spanish.
We hang around the house for a few hours. It’s a cool, comfortable space, with band stickers over the doors. I talk with the three band members for a while – mostly Martin speaks to me in English, and translates for the other members.
While we are not terribly far from the Capital here, we are far enough to be culturally distinct. Here, there are three dominant strands of music; Garroche, Surf Music and 70s inspired music. Favalli falls comfortably into the third category.
“In the Capital there is one great movement,” Facundo tells me. “Outside the Capital there are movements too.”
“There are several movements outside the Capital. For example, outside the Capital you will experience a more massive amount of people,” Nicolas adds.
That is to say, the surrounding regions often host scenes as large, or larger, and as varied as that of ‘The Under’ of Buenos Aires. Various scenes thrive in the regions relative to the Capital, the North, the South, here in the West.
“The people of the Capital look outside and they see a difference between the Capital and the outside. But that’s not the attitude between the outside groups. There are different ways to see music. To make music. The West are more passionate. The North are more rigid,” says Facundo.
“The South are more Hardcore,” says Nicolas. “Skating and that. The West are Rock and Roll.”
We talk a little about the lifestyle in the Capital. There’s a trend of late starts, with 9 or 10 as a likely kick-off. Nicolas doesn’t have a strong love of BA – the typical big city deal of grey people, financial focus. We discuss for a moment the ‘house system’ of private residences used for performances and other music industry functions. I ask him where people perform outside of the Capital.
“There's a few places. I think more and more are open to allow people to play from different styles.”
Later we get onto an all too familiar topic; some of the practical challenges affecting the scene.
“Did you see a lot of cars?” Martin quizzes me.
“Not really,” I say.
“Not everyone has a car like the United States,” he says. These kinds of small details create large gaps for the scene that are hard to fill, especially with the expenses of obtaining instruments, recording and performing. This at times has also prevented bands like Favalli from taking advantage of what institutions do exist. One example is of an offer to perform in Spain extended to the band.
“Yeah, they didn't have the finance, so they asked the council or something. They didn't get anything they asked for,” Martin says. Without holding the funds themselves, and without being able to access support, the trip couldn’t happen.
Of course, here too, official and unofficial institutions have risen up to take on support roles that would otherwise be totally absent. An example is a local arts university, which manages a local music festival.
I head out with the band, and we make our way to a smallish studio where they set up and begin to play. The bio on their Facebook page describes them as three dudes who like to travel in the sound, and the way they fall into their music is a rapid expression of this. Soon they are wrapped in the flow of their music, pulsing and throbbing with the waves of rock that burst out and surround them.
Afterwards, Maxi walks me out to the bus stop, and I head home. Soon I will be checking out the second of the two scenes outside of the capital; La Plata.
A few days later I am collected from the Capital by Nacho from La Plata (not the same as the member of Pronoise!) Nacho has shaggy hair and a relaxed, cool manner. He is a skater and an enthusiastic participant in the music scene. With him is Pablo, a stocky, blokeish, but fairly chilled guy.
As we drive down, we talk about the local scene. Like the West, La Plata has its own distinct range of scenes, featuring bands such as Guacho, and La Patrulla Espacial.
As we drive down, we talk about the local scene. Like the West, La Plata has its own distinct range of scenes, featuring bands such as Guacho, and La Patrulla Espacial.
“For me and for my taste, the bands from La Plata are really good. The value of the message is really good because it's more pure than what we have in Capital,” says Pablo. He’s not necessarily talking about the lyrical content as much as the attitude of solidarity shared by the bands here.
“In La Plata it's like a movement. All these bands, they play with friends, they play shows with each other. They help each other too. Like, 'Oh this is my band, we don't have an amplifier, we're fucked.' They try to help each other.”
Pablo repeats a lot of the same concerns others have expressed – since Cromañón, the places that remain open through permits, or taking the risk of accepting bribes, are few and far between, and are frequently unable to provide high quality audio.
“I went to see a show, not a long time ago. I went to a place - it's really seedy. The sound is like, it's a decoration of sound. They were telling me - my friends who played there - there is a waiting list for your band to play there. So you have to book way in advance to play there. And it's a shithole! Like, it's really funny. There's a waiting list to play because there's no place like this.”
One institution that does exist is the Centro Culturales, the cultural centres; typically government funded centres where cultural activities take place. However these have their own problems, as we will discuss a little later.
We arrive at the residence of Leito, a smallish but well-built man, with close cut hair. He is the lead singer of the main band I have come down to see; Cuco. They are a big La Plata band, with a distinctive aesthetic. Their logo of a murderous pink bunny is one of many visually distinct creations developed by Leito’s partner and co-creator Daniela, who creates under the name Daniela Ojo en Blanco. Her designs are visible around the house as well as political leaflets and stickers on the fridge, with references to abortion and animal liberation. There is also a clear preoccupation with David Lynch.
We drink mate and hang out for a little while. Tonight, there is a performance at Centro Cultural Estación Circunvalación, a performance venue situated in an old train station. Leito drives me in a van filled with gear.
There are four acts performing tonight. First is Licantropo, the name that Cuco member Frank Boston performs under as a solo act. He sits on his chair, strumming a guitar. KNEI, Mauro’s band are here, delivering their 70s inspired Rock Nacional sound. Leito performs with Cuco, a varied and eclectic rock outfit who explore musical ideas with high energy and enthusiasm. Dani seems non-plussed and effortless as she pounds away at the drums. Leito gives a frantic and energetic performance, pouring himself into the microphone. Another band, Peru are here too. They are technically focussed with complex guitar arrangement, the lead singer powerfully blasting his voice into the microphone. The stage is hot and the bands are performing with everything they have – they are visibly dripping with sweat.
There are four acts performing tonight. First is Licantropo, the name that Cuco member Frank Boston performs under as a solo act. He sits on his chair, strumming a guitar. KNEI, Mauro’s band are here, delivering their 70s inspired Rock Nacional sound. Leito performs with Cuco, a varied and eclectic rock outfit who explore musical ideas with high energy and enthusiasm. Dani seems non-plussed and effortless as she pounds away at the drums. Leito gives a frantic and energetic performance, pouring himself into the microphone. Another band, Peru are here too. They are technically focussed with complex guitar arrangement, the lead singer powerfully blasting his voice into the microphone. The stage is hot and the bands are performing with everything they have – they are visibly dripping with sweat.
When the show is over, I go outside to where several desks are set up, covered in merchandise. There are CDs of course, but also zines, stickers, screenprints and other artwork. There’s a large number of pieces featuring Dani’s dark and quirky cartoon style. One section of the desk is dedicated to the material of the Caracol Rojo label. I ask the man managing the stall some questions about the set-up.
“They do the records themselves, they don't depend on anyone… They're doing it because nobody else is doing it.”
Like other areas of the Argentine scene, the institutions of support have created themselves. The money made at this desk goes directly to the people whose works are sold.
At another table is a range of artwork produced by Gustako. He’s friends with Cuco's Frank Boston, and members of Peru, whose album cover Ch'ixi he designed. He himself is a member of the band El Negro. He shows me a small comic he has produced, titled Un cuento de un intruso. This is the story of ‘Guachines’: little children who live in the street and take drugs, made with a kind of metal printing press. Also on the table is an artwork he describes as his 'welcome to Obama'- GET OUT, MR PRESIDENT, OF ARGENTINA. The central figure wears the face of a skull, and crows rise up overhead.
“They do the records themselves, they don't depend on anyone… They're doing it because nobody else is doing it.”
Like other areas of the Argentine scene, the institutions of support have created themselves. The money made at this desk goes directly to the people whose works are sold.
At another table is a range of artwork produced by Gustako. He’s friends with Cuco's Frank Boston, and members of Peru, whose album cover Ch'ixi he designed. He himself is a member of the band El Negro. He shows me a small comic he has produced, titled Un cuento de un intruso. This is the story of ‘Guachines’: little children who live in the street and take drugs, made with a kind of metal printing press. Also on the table is an artwork he describes as his 'welcome to Obama'- GET OUT, MR PRESIDENT, OF ARGENTINA. The central figure wears the face of a skull, and crows rise up overhead.
I speak to a few people around the place. One encounter throws me out a little – a guy around my age, a little younger, talks to me, reiterating the kinds of things that I’m saying myself, about the limits of creative success in Argentina.
“The third world: we’re in a very different economy,” he says. “Eso me mata. Me mata.” It kills me. I’m flooded by a strange sense of guilt – there’s nothing new in what he says, but I’m suddenly aware of myself standing in this story as a tourist, a bystander, and for the first time I feel a gulf between myself and the people I am speaking with.
I also catch Leito after the show. He is buzzing from the performance and is clearly proud of the La Plata scene he has worked hard to curate here tonight. As we pass each other, he tells me what makes this scene so special: “The Capital is more fake - people want to be in a band because they want to be a rock star. Here you can’t be a rock star; it's about the music.”
The night continues. There is an option between going home and continuing to party, and I move towards the latter. I get into one car with a curvy dark haired girl who talk to me as we drive, and forgets me at our destination. No matter. We are at Leito’s house, and they have long drums called tambols, other drums, other instruments. Someone borrows my camera and wanders around taking photos. The night is alive, it is vibrant, it is musical, percussive, a river of song, of sound and of emotion and joy and energy and enthusiasm and the drums play and play and play as the night stretches onwards.
“The third world: we’re in a very different economy,” he says. “Eso me mata. Me mata.” It kills me. I’m flooded by a strange sense of guilt – there’s nothing new in what he says, but I’m suddenly aware of myself standing in this story as a tourist, a bystander, and for the first time I feel a gulf between myself and the people I am speaking with.
I also catch Leito after the show. He is buzzing from the performance and is clearly proud of the La Plata scene he has worked hard to curate here tonight. As we pass each other, he tells me what makes this scene so special: “The Capital is more fake - people want to be in a band because they want to be a rock star. Here you can’t be a rock star; it's about the music.”
The night continues. There is an option between going home and continuing to party, and I move towards the latter. I get into one car with a curvy dark haired girl who talk to me as we drive, and forgets me at our destination. No matter. We are at Leito’s house, and they have long drums called tambols, other drums, other instruments. Someone borrows my camera and wanders around taking photos. The night is alive, it is vibrant, it is musical, percussive, a river of song, of sound and of emotion and joy and energy and enthusiasm and the drums play and play and play as the night stretches onwards.
I emerge bleary in the morning, and meet with Leito in his kitchen. He is preparing mate, a popular drink here. The brand he is putting into two special cups with long flat metal straws is Canarius, a Uruguayan brand. Uruguay has a special place in Leito's heart. He travels there, to a small beach, at least yearly.
“Roots Music, in Uruguay; it's present, very, very present in the music of my friends,” Leito says. “Young people, kids, 6 years old, 5 years old will play the drum– pakapakapaka-” he mimes playing a drum- “Twelve, twenty kids. It's amazing. Muy ninos, many kids.”
For eight years now, Cuco has performed annually in Uruguay.
“The first time we played in Uruguay, the scene was small. It’s amazing; now it’s big.” There were only a handful of bands for this first performance. One of these bands formed a professional relationship with Cuco, and now they regularly work together.
“Roots Music, in Uruguay; it's present, very, very present in the music of my friends,” Leito says. “Young people, kids, 6 years old, 5 years old will play the drum– pakapakapaka-” he mimes playing a drum- “Twelve, twenty kids. It's amazing. Muy ninos, many kids.”
For eight years now, Cuco has performed annually in Uruguay.
“The first time we played in Uruguay, the scene was small. It’s amazing; now it’s big.” There were only a handful of bands for this first performance. One of these bands formed a professional relationship with Cuco, and now they regularly work together.
There are other opportunities for bands around here too. Festival Oriental Invasion features a range of foreign and local bands, and there are regular local shows, although the scene here seems to be in slight decline at present.
“Three or four years ago in La Plata, there was a bigger scene for music. Muchos, folk, guitar, poetry. Mucho. Shows with 6, 7 singers… Four years ago, too many young people played the guitar and sang. So there was a bigger scene in La Plata. But now the young people are not-so-young people.” He interjects this with scats of shadadada, boomtikakaka.
Leito regards the dominant La Plata scene as an indie scene, not as an extension of the Under.
“All the country knows La Plata for indie music. There’s a band, El Mato a un Policia Motorizado. This band, they play in Barcelona, play in Europe, play all through America. Here, many people sing their songs... The Under is another case. Gran Cuervo, KNEI. That's the Under from La Plata.”
“Three or four years ago in La Plata, there was a bigger scene for music. Muchos, folk, guitar, poetry. Mucho. Shows with 6, 7 singers… Four years ago, too many young people played the guitar and sang. So there was a bigger scene in La Plata. But now the young people are not-so-young people.” He interjects this with scats of shadadada, boomtikakaka.
Leito regards the dominant La Plata scene as an indie scene, not as an extension of the Under.
“All the country knows La Plata for indie music. There’s a band, El Mato a un Policia Motorizado. This band, they play in Barcelona, play in Europe, play all through America. Here, many people sing their songs... The Under is another case. Gran Cuervo, KNEI. That's the Under from La Plata.”
Leito's been doing this for a long time. Together with Daniela, Cuco have played for twelve years. On top of that, Leito's spent twenty-two years with a more metal act. Cuco are a polished band, from their sound, to Daniela’s dark and quirky aesthetic, to the physical materials they use (before I leave they give me an album, held in a distinctive circular CD tin). However despite this, music has never been Leito's main source of income. Music is for love.
“Now, it’s time for drink, play, friends. This is the way. You cannot live through music. I work as a mailman. This is my work; this is my money. The music is another, for love.”
The politics – in a broad sense – of Cuco’s lyrics, come more from this immediate lived experience of La Plata life than from a traditional place of political commentary. That’s not to say Leito and Daniela aren’t political; the content of their fridge door is enough to show that. They like the organic markets around La Plata, and their son attends an alternative school. Posts on their Facebook page use the gender neutral ‘Amigxs’ instead of the masculine Amigos, or feminine Amigas. When I ask Leito about this, he talks at length.
“It's a big fight in Argentina for women, gays, trans, muchos fights, with police... This is very, very macho country. It's very difficult if you’re with these ideas. Too many people fight within these ideas, this culture.”
The politics of Cuco’s lyrics however, are more subtle, more connected to the every day.
“They’re ridiculous songs. My lyrics, they're mailman lyrics. Caminar, see people, reflection, many things, ridiculous people, some strange habits, sick people in the city, people driving to work at midday, ahhhhh!” He kind of imitates the craziness of the world around him. “My lyrics are these. The alternative to consumerism, work, stress, this is my writing. But this is a bit of a political thing. This is about people working, crazy people in the streets, people work in the shops, this is political for me. My vision isn’t explicitly, "REVOLUTION, FIGHT," but it's a political thing.”
The streets, the work, the drudgery of the everyday; this transforms into something stranger, more vibrant in Cuco’s music. It’s a world disconnected from the everyday. Work is work, and music is play.
“You look very professional,” I say, in reference to Cuco’s polished aesthetic. It’s intended as a compliment, but it slides off Leito, antithetical to the place music has in his life.
“Professional,” he says. “Music’s about a time for living. Professional is a work word.”
“Now, it’s time for drink, play, friends. This is the way. You cannot live through music. I work as a mailman. This is my work; this is my money. The music is another, for love.”
The politics – in a broad sense – of Cuco’s lyrics, come more from this immediate lived experience of La Plata life than from a traditional place of political commentary. That’s not to say Leito and Daniela aren’t political; the content of their fridge door is enough to show that. They like the organic markets around La Plata, and their son attends an alternative school. Posts on their Facebook page use the gender neutral ‘Amigxs’ instead of the masculine Amigos, or feminine Amigas. When I ask Leito about this, he talks at length.
“It's a big fight in Argentina for women, gays, trans, muchos fights, with police... This is very, very macho country. It's very difficult if you’re with these ideas. Too many people fight within these ideas, this culture.”
The politics of Cuco’s lyrics however, are more subtle, more connected to the every day.
“They’re ridiculous songs. My lyrics, they're mailman lyrics. Caminar, see people, reflection, many things, ridiculous people, some strange habits, sick people in the city, people driving to work at midday, ahhhhh!” He kind of imitates the craziness of the world around him. “My lyrics are these. The alternative to consumerism, work, stress, this is my writing. But this is a bit of a political thing. This is about people working, crazy people in the streets, people work in the shops, this is political for me. My vision isn’t explicitly, "REVOLUTION, FIGHT," but it's a political thing.”
The streets, the work, the drudgery of the everyday; this transforms into something stranger, more vibrant in Cuco’s music. It’s a world disconnected from the everyday. Work is work, and music is play.
“You look very professional,” I say, in reference to Cuco’s polished aesthetic. It’s intended as a compliment, but it slides off Leito, antithetical to the place music has in his life.
“Professional,” he says. “Music’s about a time for living. Professional is a work word.”
... |
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