3. A Brief History of everything
This chapter contains material that may be upsetting.
Buenos Aires. 2016.
I meet Maxi around 10 PM, in Villa Urquiza where Argentine music superstar Luis Alberto Spinetta lived. Maxi is boyishly handsome, wearing a simple baseball cap and a jacket, and carrying an infectious energy. The words SONIC YOUTH are tattooed across his arm. He has enormous credibility in the music scene here; he was the editor of an independent music magazine between 2009 and 2012 and he presently plays bass for the band Favalli. In person, he almost never speaks English; instead we stumble through a bastardised mix of our native languages, often falling back on Google Translate to help each other communicate.
Buenos Aires. 2016.
I meet Maxi around 10 PM, in Villa Urquiza where Argentine music superstar Luis Alberto Spinetta lived. Maxi is boyishly handsome, wearing a simple baseball cap and a jacket, and carrying an infectious energy. The words SONIC YOUTH are tattooed across his arm. He has enormous credibility in the music scene here; he was the editor of an independent music magazine between 2009 and 2012 and he presently plays bass for the band Favalli. In person, he almost never speaks English; instead we stumble through a bastardised mix of our native languages, often falling back on Google Translate to help each other communicate.
Maxi first contacted me in January, via Facebook, while I was in the midst of making contact with bands and artists. From the very start, it is clear that he is ferociously passionate about the music of Argentina, and quickly assigns himself to helping me put my schedule together. In the lead up to my trip to Buenos Aires he sends me multiple messages, often in all caps, linking me to labels, to bands, radio stations. He juggles dates, times, contacts, for me, and looking back on it all, I wonder if I could have ever done it without him.
So, it’s appropriate that Maxi is the first person I am to meet on this journey. When I meet him, I am struggling to keep my thoughts coherent; I am approaching my 25th waking hour after a sleepless night on a plane. As we walk through the streets, Maxi excitedly points to statues that help tell a musical history that my foggy mind cannot quite grasp. He pulls me onto a bus, and we begin our journey. One thing that again strikes me very quickly about Buenos Aires, is the fact that so much of it has been gripped by a time warp that traps it firmly in the 70s. Cars, buildings, the popularity of cigarettes and vinyl records all contribute to the sense of being out of step with time.
Once off the bus, we pass by a grey-white van, a little bumped and battered and covered in stencils from Chile and Brazil. This belongs to Mauro ‘Russo’ Lopez, who we have come to visit. Also present is his housemate Matias.
Maxi first contacted me in January, via Facebook, while I was in the midst of making contact with bands and artists. From the very start, it is clear that he is ferociously passionate about the music of Argentina, and quickly assigns himself to helping me put my schedule together. In the lead up to my trip to Buenos Aires he sends me multiple messages, often in all caps, linking me to labels, to bands, radio stations. He juggles dates, times, contacts, for me, and looking back on it all, I wonder if I could have ever done it without him.
So, it’s appropriate that Maxi is the first person I am to meet on this journey. When I meet him, I am struggling to keep my thoughts coherent; I am approaching my 25th waking hour after a sleepless night on a plane. As we walk through the streets, Maxi excitedly points to statues that help tell a musical history that my foggy mind cannot quite grasp. He pulls me onto a bus, and we begin our journey. One thing that again strikes me very quickly about Buenos Aires, is the fact that so much of it has been gripped by a time warp that traps it firmly in the 70s. Cars, buildings, the popularity of cigarettes and vinyl records all contribute to the sense of being out of step with time.
Once off the bus, we pass by a grey-white van, a little bumped and battered and covered in stencils from Chile and Brazil. This belongs to Mauro ‘Russo’ Lopez, who we have come to visit. Also present is his housemate Matias.
If there was any doubt that we were back in the 70s, Mauro demolishes it. He wears a wide-open chest revealing top, and sports thick shaggy hair that might have featured in a pre-Raphaelite painting. Even his genetics are in on the game, with strong facial features and a pair of Mick Jagger lips. Mauro plays bass with the band KNEI, and drums with a second outfit, Las Sombras. Matias is a more recent arrival to the house. He plays with the band Montana Electrica, and is an organiser of Fauna records.
There are guitars and vinyl everywhere. Matias’s own guitar is christened Roberta as a tribute to his passionately political father Roberto, a strong Peronist who used to end up in physical conflict over his political ideals. Named after Political Leader Juan Peron, Peronism is a complex, sometimes seemingly contradictory political ideology that broadly promotes working class political ideals.
“Argentina was practically the only country in Latin America that is making rock in their own language, in the 70s,” Mateus tells me.
“The first country that made Rock 'n' roll in Spanish,” adds Mauro. He speaks in a deep booming baritone.
Certainly there were other artists about, singing in Spanish. But here in Argentina, the style that bloomed out of the late 50s – eventually evolving into the genre labelled Rock Nacional in the 70s – was steadfast in its insistence on singing in Spanish. This became a defining feature of the genre.
While the 70s remains the most influential period of music, at least for the people in this room, Argentine rock first emerged in the mid-50s, taking its cues from the international rock movement. A second unstoppable wave of influence came in the 1960s, in the form of international Beatlemania. In this period, a great deal of change and exciting new energy flowed through Latin America, in a range of styles. One Peruvian band, Los Saicos, became an early pioneer of Punk music.
“Before the British. But the British never would say that!” interjects Mauro.
Soon, Mauro stands as though possessed by a spirit, and rummages through his collection of vinyl to pull out a record by 'Pappo' – a dominant figure in the development of Rock Nacional in the 70s. Pappo, or Norberto Anibal Napolitano, is a major figure in Argentine rock history. Matias calls him ‘The voice founding Argentinian rock.’ He’s one of the major figures of Rock Nacional, whose involvement in several bands including Manal and Los Gatos, and musical relationship with BB King in the 90s cemented his place in musical history.
“In the 80s, most musicians didn't live here,” Matias says. “They went to other countries because of the death and paranoia, because of the military.”
'The military' refers to the military dictatorship that dominated Argentina from mid 70s to the mid 80s. The history of the regime is tied to an operation of such scale and brutality that it is difficult to fathom; Operation Condor.
Between 1954 and 1976, the governments of Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Paraguay and Uruguay were overthrown by military dictatorships, many with the assistance of the United States of America. In a meeting, these nations together determined to collaborate towards the goal of crushing leftist and Marxist dissent in a plan known as Operation Condor. The cost of this operation was, as always, paid in blood. Tens of thousands of people were murdered, kidnapped, separated from their children, raped or sexually tortured, thrown alive from aircraft, tortured or “disappeared” in an international campaign observed, condoned, and funded by the United States of America.
In Argentina this operation took the form of a ‘dirty war’, at the hands of the Triple A Death Squads. Of course, there was no war – just a civilian population on whom a ‘war’ was endlessly waged, in acts of state terrorism. Among the victims were indeed left wing-militants, who stood no credible threat of overthrowing the government, but also nuns, students, teachers intellectuals.
It is important to tell the human stories behind such periods of history: it is otherwise impossible for us to process this scale of violence as anything but statistics.
On The Night of the Pencils, ten young people were kidnapped. Six were never seen again. All were between 16 and 18. Some were active in volunteering in poor neighbourhoods, including helping in schools and health departments. Some indeed had radical links.
Elmilce Moler was one target of the operation, whose testimony was recorded by the BBC.
We were taken to a clandestine detention centre called Arana, in La Plata, where we were made to suffer the worst conditions a human being can bear.
They tortured us with profound sadism. I remember being naked. I was just a fragile small girl of about 1.5m and weighed about 47kg, and I was beaten senseless by what I judged was a huge man.
Another of these students, Pablo Diaz gave the following testimony.
In Arana, they gave me electric shocks in my mouth, my gums, and on my genitals. They tore out a toenail. It was very usual to spend several days without food.
Only four of the ten returned. The youngest two - at sixteen years old – were counted among the ranks of “disappeared” people.
All this happened under the eye, and with the support, of the United States government.
Because such operations were deeply secretive, it is impossible to know the full human cost of this decent into butchery. Certainly, the numbers of victims across the whole of Condor seem to range between 60,000 and 80,000. Of this number, around 30,000 deaths or disappearances can be attributed to Argentina alone.
Because such operations were deeply secretive, it is impossible to know the full human cost of this decent into butchery. Certainly, the numbers of victims across the whole of Condor seem to range between 60,000 and 80,000. Of this number, around 30,000 deaths or disappearances can be attributed to Argentina alone.
Despite this shadow of repressive violence, musicians did remain in Argentina.
“Many musicians were living here, like Luis Alberto Spinetta, Charlie Garcia, El Pappo, but the culture in Argentina has never been so tough as these years,” Matias tells me. “All the time, we fight. In our music we fight to change the establishment with music, from the love of making art.”
One example of the rebellious nature of music in this period can be seen in the article Rock Subversivo: The Response of Argentina’s Youth to El Proceso by Augustin Diz.
In a sense, going out to the Luna Park (a historic venue in Buenos Aires) or any other rock venue became a political assertion.
As one of my uncles explained to me, “you have to realize that we would come out of those concerts at 2 AM and we had to take the bus or train through stations where we would see contingents of soldiers armed with submachine guns. And at the same time our parents worried over us, but they couldn’t stop us from being teenagers.”
“Many musicians were living here, like Luis Alberto Spinetta, Charlie Garcia, El Pappo, but the culture in Argentina has never been so tough as these years,” Matias tells me. “All the time, we fight. In our music we fight to change the establishment with music, from the love of making art.”
One example of the rebellious nature of music in this period can be seen in the article Rock Subversivo: The Response of Argentina’s Youth to El Proceso by Augustin Diz.
In a sense, going out to the Luna Park (a historic venue in Buenos Aires) or any other rock venue became a political assertion.
As one of my uncles explained to me, “you have to realize that we would come out of those concerts at 2 AM and we had to take the bus or train through stations where we would see contingents of soldiers armed with submachine guns. And at the same time our parents worried over us, but they couldn’t stop us from being teenagers.”
It is generally accepted that the end of the dictatorship saw a strengthening of creative activity, with artists able to express themselves lyrically without the censors looking over their shoulder, and without the threat of violence if the government didn’t appreciate their work. It is possibly to observe a break in the cultural lineage between the before and after of this event.
I use Facebook to contact Sirius Mazzu, the person who first put me in contact with the Argentine Underground to ask him about this. Mazzu explained:
With the dictatorship and its restriction on the entry of things from abroad, Argentine music was quite behind in time compared to the rest of the world: punk, post-punk, new wave, electo pop, etc. entered all together and at once with the fall of the military; a lot of new genres entered and injected vitality into the inbred and suffocated artistic scene of the late 70s - the same for other branches of art such as comics and cinema.
This creative explosion seemed to intensify along in the post-dictatorship period, developing in all sorts of directions, into the early 2000s. While Mauro and Matias believe the impact of Cromañón in 2004 has been overstated in terms of the damage it caused to the music scene, it remains culturally significant.
“Cromanion marks a cultural break in the city, the country, everything… Now we say, and a lot of people say, that the last ten years is the best time from the independent music, the Under music,” Matias tells me.
“The best climb up, a lot of the time,” adds Mauro.
From this perspective, Cromañón could be seen to represent a cultural break in the music scene, from a narrative of resistance against wider institutions, to an assertion of its own obscure place in Argentine culture as an alternative artform. Instead of fighting against the institutions of government and military, the energy of the underground was refocussed towards the soulless corporatisation and cynical globalisation of the music industry. The pressure that pushed the Under further under helped to solidify its identity.
Mauro’s reluctance to overstate the impact of Cromañón on the Under is an acknowledgment of the difference in audiences. República Cromañón after all was designed to host big mainstream bands.
“The people who see our shows, don’t go to see those shows. They are other people. It doesn’t influence us in what we do,” he says.
Despite Argentina’s rich and proud musical history, Matias tells me that these days it is much harder for Argentine bands to develop a fanbase in their own country.
“In Argentina people go crazy when comes a band in from another country. 'Oh wow wow!' That band in your country maybe doesn't have an audience, maybe just a little bit. But in this country, ‘Oh wow!’ European bands are now big bands!”
“People love to see bands from other countries,” Mauro tells me. “And bands that come from other countries, maybe small European countries or from the USA. They don’t have much of an audience in their countries, but here they are like an explosion.”
“For music, good music, in Argentina now, in actuality there is not much support,” Matias says.
This lack of structural support in Argentina has led to a phenomenon of community labels. Unlike traditional labels, these tend to eschew top down structures, or ownership over bands’ creative work. Instead, these labels function along the lines of guilds who exert their influence to develop essential infrastructure to support bands and artists in and around Argentina.
“It starts like a movement, OK,” Matias says. “People or independent bands like us, we want to release our records without support. This idea became bigger… I think that being a musician in our country is like soul, like love. There isn't any support. Really, like we play and make music because we don't make something else.”
These individuals and small bands sometimes come together to develop labels. For Matias, this process began in 2008 when he first founded his label PSYCHOSTONED Records, which he would later rename Fauna sometime after 2010.
The functions of these labels depend partly of the visions of the communities or individuals who found them. Fauna helped to record albums, managed elements of tours, and distributed music that they and others had recorded.
“Before Fauna we stayed in Pronoise,” Matias tells me. The two labels had an arrangement where Pronoise would help them record, before they were able to provide such a service themselves. “We recorded Favalli and KNEI through Pronoise in 2011.”
In 2013 however, they were able to develop their own studio; Casa Fauna, in Villa Crespo.
“I moved to a house with two people,” says Matias. “We put in a recording studio. Room to play music… We had Fauna in this year, and we decided to make a collective. We let all the people be a part of the place and we recorded free records for bands we liked. We worked for a lot of bands; making shows, making records, making sound for live performance, and driving for bands and everything, free.”
This spirit of solidarity went beyond Argentina; Fauna helped bands from other countries, including Chile, Brazil, Mexico and Uraguay.
“When bands come to the country, we make shows, we look for some place to sleep, we move them,” Mauro says.
“We shift them for their tour, everything, everything free,” says Matias.
“If you come-” begins, Mauro, then throws his arms back theatrically, frustrated with trying to find the right words, “Like a monkey I'm talking!” he cries. It is late in the night, and we are all a little tired. “If you come last January, Casa Fauna is still there,” he finishes.
While I’m not able to see Casa Fauna, Matias and Mauro are able to show me some of the music that Fauna has produced or distributed. I recognise some of the logos of bands from the van outside. I read through names: Leticia Soma. Welcome to Carupa Valley (I read the track names: Cum in the potato salad, Anal Fuhrer). The Dukes of Trash. Also in the pile is Terror Cósmico, a Mexican band that Fauna supported.
“In Argentina people go crazy when comes a band in from another country. 'Oh wow wow!' That band in your country maybe doesn't have an audience, maybe just a little bit. But in this country, ‘Oh wow!’ European bands are now big bands!”
“People love to see bands from other countries,” Mauro tells me. “And bands that come from other countries, maybe small European countries or from the USA. They don’t have much of an audience in their countries, but here they are like an explosion.”
“For music, good music, in Argentina now, in actuality there is not much support,” Matias says.
This lack of structural support in Argentina has led to a phenomenon of community labels. Unlike traditional labels, these tend to eschew top down structures, or ownership over bands’ creative work. Instead, these labels function along the lines of guilds who exert their influence to develop essential infrastructure to support bands and artists in and around Argentina.
“It starts like a movement, OK,” Matias says. “People or independent bands like us, we want to release our records without support. This idea became bigger… I think that being a musician in our country is like soul, like love. There isn't any support. Really, like we play and make music because we don't make something else.”
These individuals and small bands sometimes come together to develop labels. For Matias, this process began in 2008 when he first founded his label PSYCHOSTONED Records, which he would later rename Fauna sometime after 2010.
The functions of these labels depend partly of the visions of the communities or individuals who found them. Fauna helped to record albums, managed elements of tours, and distributed music that they and others had recorded.
“Before Fauna we stayed in Pronoise,” Matias tells me. The two labels had an arrangement where Pronoise would help them record, before they were able to provide such a service themselves. “We recorded Favalli and KNEI through Pronoise in 2011.”
In 2013 however, they were able to develop their own studio; Casa Fauna, in Villa Crespo.
“I moved to a house with two people,” says Matias. “We put in a recording studio. Room to play music… We had Fauna in this year, and we decided to make a collective. We let all the people be a part of the place and we recorded free records for bands we liked. We worked for a lot of bands; making shows, making records, making sound for live performance, and driving for bands and everything, free.”
This spirit of solidarity went beyond Argentina; Fauna helped bands from other countries, including Chile, Brazil, Mexico and Uraguay.
“When bands come to the country, we make shows, we look for some place to sleep, we move them,” Mauro says.
“We shift them for their tour, everything, everything free,” says Matias.
“If you come-” begins, Mauro, then throws his arms back theatrically, frustrated with trying to find the right words, “Like a monkey I'm talking!” he cries. It is late in the night, and we are all a little tired. “If you come last January, Casa Fauna is still there,” he finishes.
While I’m not able to see Casa Fauna, Matias and Mauro are able to show me some of the music that Fauna has produced or distributed. I recognise some of the logos of bands from the van outside. I read through names: Leticia Soma. Welcome to Carupa Valley (I read the track names: Cum in the potato salad, Anal Fuhrer). The Dukes of Trash. Also in the pile is Terror Cósmico, a Mexican band that Fauna supported.
Eventually, it is time to leave. The world is buzzing around me, as I approach the 48th hour without sleep. I stumble through the waking streets of Buenos Aires, through what seems an ocean of flashing blue light, past a graffited and vandalised bus, into Palermo where my too cheap hostel waits for me to collapse into a deep sleep.
... |
DON'T WAITYou can read all 11 chapters online and offline by buying the physical copy of Si Nos Organizamos from Blurb.
< Click for physical copy. Or, get the ebook and chapter access via the CLUTTERED BUTTS Patreon - $5 will grant access to this work, as well as CHASING ERIS, UNITED WE FNORD, SPAM BOT LOVE SONG and more. |