Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Cafe Tacuba concert

I’m used to going to packed concerts and not being able to see anything that happens on the stage because I’m short and the screens they put up, for some strange reason, look really bad. But the sad reality Tuesday at the “Protestódromo” stage in front of the American Interests Section, with the Mexican band Cafe Tacuba, was not that I couldn’t see them but that from my perspective the only thing I could read was: All for the Revolution. As I arrived a little late, a friend sarcastically said that Raúl Castro had opened the concert with a Friky speech.

Behind the poster were the black flags and behind the black flags were the red letters scrolling across the front of the American Interests Section… how disgusting! All that and I’m less than 5’5” tall; the only thing we’ll remember from this concert in Havana is this image, the only thing we can see. I’m not criticizing anyone but if I were an overseas musician and I was coming to play in Cuba, it wouldn’t kill me to play the “Protestódromo”, better that than playing at the Central Committee and celebrating with those involved in the “50th Anniversary of the Existence of the State Security Organs.”

But the worst was at the end, a mob of police with whistles started whistling behind us to get us to “clear ourselves out” of the place. I was left standing alone on the platform until there were 10 whistles screeching at my back. I turned, then, and told them:

- I’m not going to ask the reasons why I have to leave here, but since you are going to remove me you could at least have the decency not to treat me like a cow.

A girl and two boy cops asked me to do them the favor, but the one who seemed to be the boss said it took them a long time to get people to leave and I had to go, it didn’t matter how, whether with whistles or shoves, but go.

- Are they paying you to get me out? No? Then this time you spend here is included in your salary, it’s not my fault it’s slow work, you asked me the favor of leaving and I’m going, but whistle at me again and I’ll stay.

He didn’t whistle any more but he mumbled some curses, I suppose directed at me and at youth in general… the bitterness of the repressive ones.

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