Stories - 3rd: description
Reggae Roots
Place taken: Buenos Aires, Argentina
Nathan Lane, Lawrence University
ISA Buenos Aires, Fall 2008
Before joining the band pictured in this photo, I wasn't getting to know Buenos Aires. I spent most nights trying to squeeze Spanish language practice out of my taciturn host mother and attending capoeira (an Afro-Brazilian art form that combines elements of martial arts, music, and dance) practice at a local gym. One Wednesday evening, however, my Brazilian capoeira instructor, Mario, invited the class to see his band perform at a local bar. Mario's first language was Portuguese and had never really studied Spanish, so more detail than that could not penetrate the dense linguistic fog that separated him and me.
Somehow, I translated Mario's after-class speech into a street address and arrived at the bar to catch the last few numbers of his unusual musical outfit. Although employing eight musicians, including two percussionists and two guitar players, they had only one guy in the horn section. I sensed an opportunity though I had no idea how to go about what I had in mind.
This photo may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express, written consent of the photographer.
Photo by Nathan Lane, Lawrence University
At the next capoeira practice I told Mario that I saw his band. He asked me what he thought and I said, jokingly, "You know what you need?" Mario shook his head, "a trombonist."
Mario communicated in his unique and terse variety of English: "Yeah, is good."
"I know a trombonist," I said.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Me!" I said, hoping that this came across as more funny than rude.
Mario seemed to think for a half-second. "Okay. Rehearsal. On ... Thursday." I hadn't really expected that conversation to turn out that way, but somehow I had managed to snag my first invitation to a group. Ever!
Thursday rolled around and I met Mario after class to catch an extremely long bus-ride to a part of the city that I'd never even heard of before where the band rented a room for practice. An hour of bumpy roads and patchy, accented conversation later, we arrived.
Mario and I had arrived fashionably late. The rest of the band was already there, already rehearsing, which is impressive actually. Reggae bands run late, Argentinians run late and the combination runs even later. The only thing in the world that could be later than that was Mario. After some good-natured ribbing, they set to familiarizing me with the song structures and harmonies. There was some confusion about some slight differences in musical vocabulary and whether they should speak to me in Spanish or English (Spanish, thank you very much!), but no sooner did I finally understand the names of the chords that they were telling me than did I rocket off the accompanying scales, interrupting the guitarist as he tried to tell me each note individually. Cafre, the fat drummer whose girth spilled over the sides of his drum throne, laughed and declared me "una maquinita," a little machine. More than a decade of playing ancient exercises and mind-numbing scale patterns and living out an embarrassing band geek lifestyle paid off in one beautiful moment when I rendered this roomful of reggaeros speechless. I was in.
Officially part of the group, a happy routine developed. Every week, I would walk over to the capoeira studio and meet with Mario. We would take the long bus ride together and Mario would practice his English with me while I asked him about life in Brazil and life as an immigrant. Mario's English was pretty bad and was comprised mostly of Bob Marley and Malcom X quotations, so I didn't mind the invasion of my Spanish practice. It must have been an odd sight for the native Argentines: two foreigners, one tall and white, the other short and black, battling their way through acquired languages to talk about politics and prejudice on a crowded city bus.
This band made things happen for me. The band had a weekly gig at a bar to which I was able to invite my friends and even my dad when he came to visit. It was with this band that I traveled to play at a gathering in a villa — one of the city's ghettoes — a place most tourists and exchange students would never get to see. It also introduced me to Maykel, the trumpet player. He invited me to play in one of his bands and hang out regularly in his house, jamming and eating Argentine-style pizza with friends.
This photo is a picture of us at our weekly gig. I directed my friend to take this photo, and asked her to leave off the flash. I think this is the best method of taking photos of music shows, because the flash lighting is nothing like the actual ambience of an event. It's rather risky because the long exposure time leaves a lot of room for error, like shaky hands and moving musicians, but can provide great reward in the artistic swirl of light and colors. One of the most interesting elements of the photo for me is how the blur corresponds to the stage presence of everyone in the photo. Our singer, very animated and not encumbered by an instrument, always moved and jumped during our performances, thus, though in the picture, he is totally transparent. A few portions of my anatomy are also blurred, a consequence of the necessity of moving all that length of trombone slide and preference of "getting into it" when I play.
Maykel, though, is really the star of this photo, being centered, backlit and one of those trumpet players that hardly moves an inch while he plays. As a consequence, he is barely blurred and came out in great detail. As usual, the trumpet player steals the limelight.
This is the photo of the life to which I hope to return after I graduate. Before going, I was not sure what I planned to do with my study of music, and how it fit in with the rest of my liberal arts education. But in the chaotic streets of Buenos Aires, I learned that music was something that would open doors for me wherever I went. In Buenos Aires, behind those doors were new experiences, playing opportunities and lifelong friendships. I can't wait to get back.
Return to photo