quetzalicow: January 17, 2010

Two things about my most recent visit to Mexico. Besides the beautiful wedding, between two good friends, who are very dear to me. Besides the usual wonderful things I have come to associate with and love about Mexico—the dramatic topographies, replete with jagged peaks, the otherworldly desert moonscapes, and the world’s most beautiful beaches; the outstanding food, prepared with love and the freshest ingredients, the fat old ladies making tortillas the way they really should be made, the queso fundido, the salsas, and lamb to go with those tortillas; besides the kind generosity and good nature of the Mexicans and their incomparable sense of humor, their spirit for appreciating life; our late-night conversations about the richness of the Zapotecas, the Mexicas, the Mixtecas, the Toltecas and all the other pre-Hispanic cultures; besides our discovery that when Americans look at the moon, they see a man and when the Mexicans gaze upon that heavenly body, they see a rabbit.

Besides all these things, there were two things that struck me in my latest trip to Mexico.

The first came to my notice when I arrived in Guadalajara. All over Mexico, there are these huge, football field-sized open air restaurants where you can get the standard Mexican fare, along with some of the region’s specialties. Jalisco, being a state heavily endowed with ranching money and blood money, a sort of Texas in Mexico, specializes in birria, a spicy stew made with goat or mutton and dried peppers that one sops up with tortillas, and tortas mojadas, a Mexican sandwich served in the meat’s broth, perfect on a cold day or as a remedy for a hangover. What struck me that first night upon entering one of these enormous open air restaurants was how empty it was while still full of life.

Eight of us from James’ wedding cohort strolled in after they picked me up at the bus station. I had just rolled in from Vallarta, after a perfect vallartazo. Another thing I have come to expect about Mexico: The towns might be disheveled, their buildings dilapidated, narcos might control huge territories because of the ridiculously backwards drug laws in the States, you might see things rotting in the streets, the roads are about to fall apart, but you can always expect a full-service bus ride. Always on time. Plenty of leg room, meal (at no extra cost), you can catch up on all the bad movies you would never sit through otherwise, and reasonably priced. When you think that everything else in Mexico has gone to hell (except for the food, some of the best in the world, and the people, who are models of perseverance), you can always count on the fantastic bus service.

Anyways, the eight of us strolled into the immense, mostly vacant eating establishment and there were more mariachis than customers. Typical. What is it about Mexican musical groups? They all wear outfits, uniforms; I don’t know if one of their mothers puts together these elaborate, gaudy get-ups, but they all are in unison. Big sombreros or cowboy hats, gold lamé, bright purple or burgundy coats and pants. You can see these perfectly uniformed bands hitting the agricultural circuit in the States in towns like Fresno or up here in Mount Vernon. Ranchera groups like El Cartel de Sinaloa, Los Buitres de Culiacán, Los Tucanes de Tijuana.

So here we were in this huge restaurant, the mariachi music was blaring, three or four trumpets, the freakishly large bass guitar, the yip-yip-yip, screeching whistles, chiflidos, and a lead singer spilling his guts, putting his soul on the line while the rest of the group serves as a thundering chorus.

At the table next to us (I don’t know why we sat next to them, when the restaurant, with hundreds of empty tables, could have made room for us anywhere else) were six or seven drunks, a couple of kids running around and four tequila bottles, mostly empty. While we were trying to eat, these gallant borrachos were singing along with the mariachis, whistling at levels of sound so high in the stratosphere that they would have made the sound of cats mating pleasant and emptying the tequila bottles on their faces. One of them went over and pissed on Omar’s truck, even when there was a fully available, empty restroom with thirty toilets ready to be pissed in, complete with restroom attendant to pull out the paper towels for bathroom-goers, a tip bowl with a handful of pesos.

Omar dipped his head into his hands as he saw the idiot pissing on his truck. Like I said, Guadalajara is a place built on ranching and narco money. If Omar were to say anything to the drunk who was too lazy to walk across the football field-sized restaurant to take a leak at the toilet complete with tip-seeking attendant, who knows? Maybe a scuffle would have ensued. And there would be a good chance that guns would be brought out. It's Jalisco. And James’ cohort, the eight of us—Sarah, his red-headed Midwestern bride; Omar, the artist; Primo, a software engineer; Jenny, Primo’s pregnant compañera; María José, James’ niece; Alberto, her boyfriend studying to be an engineer; and me, just another gringo in Mexico—well, we weren’t gonna win that fight.

There is something so surreal about a scene such as this. Reminscent of a bad acid trip, the heaviness hits you like one of Werner Herzog’s early films, maybe Aguirre: Wrath of God or Fitzcarraldo, or a Hunter S. Thompson gonzo adventure. Gaudy and big, the sounds and the colors melt. You don’t have to take any drugs to feel completely disoriented and overwhelmed. Even the food you are eating, a descendant from centuries of indigenous gastronomy, is bowling you over. This is Mexico. Loud and passionate. Exuberant.

The second thing that struck me about my recent trip to Mexico is that I heard Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” three times in the span of about one week. Twice on the radio, once on a video. The one where they are rocking Wembley Stadium and total mayhem ensues. Not having heard this song in such a long time, I was really moved. There is music humanity will still be listening to in five centuries. If we’re still around, I’m certain that Beethoven and Mozart will still have a hold on humans’ ears and hearts. The Beatles will still move us. And I’m sure that “The Bohemian Rhapsody” will still be a masterpiece.

Queen’s magnum opus is composed of various sections that are pieced together to tell a sad story, a homoerotic coming of age and awakening. The introduction and ballad sections, with impassioned piano play by Freddie Mercury, set up the narrative, and then the operatic middle section emanates the madness that ensues with multi-tracked voices made with some 180 overdubs to create a mammoth chorus. This mock opera then alternates with aria-like solos from Brian May on guitar or Mercury howling out the story, and then returns back to his impassioned piano play, the haunting melody.

But what is this song about? Teetering on the kitsch and the absurd, “Bohemian Rhapsody” is a story about a poor boy that just killed someone and is supposedly singing to his mother, “Mama mia,” about how his life will never be the same. Like so many other boys who come into manhood in a shattering of innocence. In a way, the poor boy of the song sells his soul to the devil. He doesn’t want to die. And the piece works up into a huge operatic fantasy. The title of the album from which the song comes is A Night at the Opera and alludes to the Wagnerian spectacle that unfolds in the song in which your wildest dreams can come true. And you can be rescued by the music.

In many ways, classic rock is a synonym for hard rock from the 70s, although classic rock radio stations might play songs from the 60s and 80s and maybe even the 90s, too. But the 70s were a time that really epitomized classic rock and what it stands for. Whether it be Queen, Black Sabbath or Peter Frampton, these guys went to the extreme. Maybe overboard. Loud and proud, like Mexico.

Another band that has been on my mind lately is Led Zeppelin, arguably the most prototypical, they are the apex of the classic rock sound. I think my reawakening to this sound has to do with my truck, Tommy Three Reds. Because it is a truck, it is a vehicle built to last. As Steinbeck wrote, “A trucker requires many more thousands of miles of good service than a passenger-car owner. He is not to be dazzled with trimming or fins or doodads and he is not required by his status to buy a new model every year or so to maintain social face. Everything about my truck is made to last.” Based on this reasoning, Tommy needs a soundtrack that is built to last and appropriate for the ride it provides. I need to hear Truck music when we are venturing in the Mount Baker Wilderness or cruising on a fishing trip. Music from the likes of Kris Kristofferson, Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash or Neko Case. Basically, country influenced music. And for some reason, classic rock fits so well, too, because it, also, is built to last. Or maybe it’s the testosterone of classic rock, which fits so well with the truck.

And it’s strange that I had to go to Mexico to figure all of this out. But it does make perfect sense. Once you have lived Mexico, everything else seems quiet and understated. And maybe that’s a good thing. But once a year, I need to have my soul restored by the exuberant experience that is Mexico, and every once in a while, I need to have my heart feel the passion it feels when listening to early Led Zeppelin. And these are the mariachis of my mind that go on haunting me, making me who I am.