The importance of music

Okay, so the radio in the home of my host family is tuned to 98.7 FM, otherwise known as "Ritmo Romantico," which they are fond of advertising every three or four minutes and which probably needs no translation from me. Mainstream romantic music in Peru, I have found, makes me want to buy an extra large bag of cotton balls and to spend the rest of the day stuffing its contents into my ears. It's somehow refreshing to me that this also true of mainstream romantic music in the States. I'm not referring to all romantic music, don't get me wrong, just the stuff that sounds like someone invented a device capable of taking cotton candy and rendering it into sound.

The radio tends to be on a lot, because the housekeeper enjoys listening to it during the day. It's also the soundtrack to lunch and dinner, and occasionally to breakfast. It doesn't help that a surprising number of the songs are probably or definitely remakes of romantic songs in America, circa 1990. The other day I heard "It Must Have Been Love," by Roxette, which, okay, strictly speaking is not an American group, but which fits nicely with the Ritmo Romantico theme. I guess Roxette recorded a Spanish version in the mid-90s, for which I will never forgive them.

Last night I went to see some live music. This was by sheer happenstance. Initially I went to a local pub at about 10:30pm to wait for Jesus, the director of the language school. Since yesterday was my last day, we were meant to head out for some drinks. However, he was a bit late, and after a little while I ended up chatting with a couple of folks from the UK. Nice conversation, mostly about the differences between meeting people while traveling and meeting people at home, and how the former seems to somehow be easier than the latter. After about half an hour, Jesus arrived and informed me that he and his friends would be at Mushrooms, which is a nearby club. He bustled off, and I stayed to chat and to finish my beer for another 20 minutes or so. And off I went to Mushrooms.

I learned last night that finding someone in a club is literally impossible. The FBI should know this; it would cut the costs of their witness protection programs by many percentage points. Just take your high-level mob informant, walk him into the nearest discotheque, and plant him in a booth or on the dance floor. The moment you turn your back he will instantly melt into the crowd, disappearing into anonymity more certainly than if the best plastic surgeon in the world had all the time and resources to work on him. For this reason, he needs a tracking collar or beacon of some kind, because you, FBI, are not exempt from the truly wonderous anonymity-producing effects of the discotheque.

So I couldn't find Jesus. I tried calling a couple of times, but calling someone in a discotheque is equally as fruitless as looking for them, unless his or her ringtone is set to jet-engine levels of loudness. Which some of them are.

Just down the street from Mushrooms was another establishment, the Lek, in which there was actual live music. From the street, it sounded like astonishingly good live music. Having nothing better to do, and disinterested in scouring other discotheques for evidence of Jesus, I went in, ordered a drink, and listened. The band - called Phuno, if I understood the bouncer correctly - was composed of a diminutive lead singer with an amazing baritone (I think) voice, a lead guitarist who must have been playing since he was in the womb, a bass guitarist who looked like a Peruvian version of U2's The Edge, an amazingly versatile and creative saxophonist, and a slightly portly drummer with a nearly flawless sense of rhythm. Boy, were they good. Of course, it was made all the more enjoyable and stunning by the fact that the only Peruvian music I had heard up until that point involved the profligate, one might say excessive, use of pan flutes and synthesized drums. This was, frankly, a vast improvement. I freely admit that this is a matter of taste. But, for my money, you really can't beat the experience of suddenly realizing that the vaguely familiar song the Peruvian rock/blues band in front of you is playing is a brilliant cover of the Doors' "Light My Fire." They also played "No Yo Se Mañana," which I think is originally by Julio Iglesias; most of their songs I didn't recognize, of course, but they were all masterful.

Naturally, the experience made me miss my guitar. I made a cursory effort to find them on the web, but video and audio streaming is a bit sluggish here. Perhaps after returning to the states...

Today I move on to a hostal. Back to dorm-style living for a little while, probably for the last time in my life. Next week, March 2nd, I leave for Macchu Picchu. The weeks after that will be given over to a rainforest excursion of undetermined length, and some traveling around southern Peru, before I make my way back to Lima a day or two before my flight on March 25th.

Hope all is well at home. I am missing friends and family greatly. Keep up the fight, Wisconsin!