Conmocion

Click, click. La la lalala la. It was midnight on Saturday and I was procrastinating. For what; I did not know. I had just gotten back from a delicious dinner at El Huerto, one of Santiago’s finest vegetarian restaurants and was now flipping through my iTunes, trying to find that song. The song that would ease my restlessness; my sense that the night wasn’t really over.

And then my phone rang. Jacqueline!

“Hey girl, where are you? We’re on Avenida Providencia and heading to the Conmocion concert. You comin’?” she said.

Avenida Providencia. Only two blocks from my apartment...

“I’m there. See ya in two minutes,” I replied.

I leapt off the shiny chrome barstool, grabbed my luscious leather purse and flew out the door of our 14th floor apartment. Something had kept me from following the bed-bound fate of my roommates when we got home from dinner. I certainly would have silenced Jacqueline’s call if I was nestled under my three billowy blankets counting Mary’s lambs and awaiting slumber. A Conmocion concert (falling more or less into the Ska genre) is the exact opposite of the inner peace and tranquility one feels when surrendering to dream land.


Rewind several months.

Jacqueline and I went to a concert at La Universidad Catolica’s “Festival de Bienvenida” soon after I arrived. Think sweaty bodies jumping up and down, twirling, swaying and singing along to the 19-person musical ensemble onstage. Trumpets blare, drums slither, cymbals clatter and the warm, velvety, buttery voice of the lead singer envelopes its way into the very pores of the enthusiastic listeners in the packed outdoor courtyard. It was slightly overwhelming, having just arrived in Santiago and still adjusting to the passionate culture.

But I was ready tonight; ready to rock ‘n roll with the best of ‘em.

I met Jacqueline, Adam and John on Avenida Providencia and we hopped into one of the many yellow-topped black cabs that scour Santiago’s streets looking for customers. Down, down, down to the other end of the city the driver took us. We hopped out at Barrio Brazil, which coincidentally was where I stayed in the hostel with the group for the first month. Following the crowd seemed to be the best bet. They took us down a dark street milling with unsavory looking characters and then suddenly stopped outside of ominous-looking warehouse doors.

Welcome to Galpon Victor Jarra, one of Santiago’s underground concert venues. Two burly, scraggly men stood proud at the entrance, arms stretched out for the 3,000 pesos (about US $5) we had to fork over to get inside. Quiet outside; music suddenly burst from the now open doors as the men beckoned for us to enter. John, already well on his way to la la land, headed straight for the bar, which greeted its patrons with hand-written signs boasting Chilean bar basics. Piscola (Pisco and Coca Cola), Pisco Sour (Chile’s go-to drink) and Cristal (beer). Jacqueline, Adam and I stood back and breathed in the chaotic but rhythmic scene of a hundred or so Chileans bouncing and swaying to tropical melodies blaring from loudspeakers above.

It was dark, dirty and hot. You could smell the sweat dripping from the brows of the fervent dancers. Laughter and whoops of delight punctured the upbeat, melodious music. We looked at each other in unspoken agreement and plunged ahead. It was go time.

With a hop, skip and a jump; we were just as quickly part of the flailing crowd. We may have been the only gringos there but none of that mattered once we joined the rest of them. A few minutes more and the opening band, Dulce de Guayaba, started rattling their instruments behind the closed stage curtain. A deep but caramel-sweet voice rose above the crowd as the curtain snapped open.

The handsome singer, wearing a green and white flower-patterned shirt, must have been all but 18. Behind him, 6 others wearing the same shirt in different colors, stood behind their instruments, a steel drum, xylophone, and maracas among others. They danced and swayed as they sang and played. The chaos that once was the warehouse-turned-concert venue became a methodically moving mass of people. People loved the 18-year-old. Jacqueline and I decided to be obnoxious and yell things in English, which the grand majority of the crowd there was certain not to understand.

“Take it off!” I shouted.

“I want to have your babies!” she roared.

Yes, when it comes down to it, we’re Americans and prone to yelling inappropriate things during crowded, passionate events. Think football, baseball, soccer, track competitions, heck, even ice-skating.

They played and played, working the crowd into a frenzy. And just as quickly as they had started, they stopped. The loudspeakers once again blared music conducive to swaying hips and fancy footwork. We danced until 3 AM when suddenly, everything went quiet.

From the far back of the warehouse, the pitter-patter of drums began. A trumpet bellowed. Cymbals went clatter-clatter. And men dressed as devils led the long entourage across the room and through the crowd, up to the stage, pausing every minute or so to coax the eager audience into a worked-up bed of emotion. The 19-person group was primarily male but the four women that had worked their way in wore gypsy dresses and hundreds of bangles, their faces jeweled and painted in exotic swirls.

When Conmocion got on stage, they simultaneously stopped and then broke right into their first song. What sounded to us like a bunch of musical instruments intertwining and short, choppy song lyrics was comfort to the Chileans in the crowd. They knew all the words and shouted them right back to the performers onstage. We followed their lead and jumped up and down; scattering in a few upward arm throws as well. I hummed along loudly, trying to pass off that I, too, knew what was going on.

In addition to clanging cymbals, the devils would act out the songs, often jumping on each other and pummeling each other’s behinds. They would fight over the elegant woman who held front and center on the stage and attempt to entice her to leave with them. Others in costumes would jump on top of the large speakers to the side of the stage and dance, then just as slyly crawl down and resume playing. The handsome trumpet player often knelt at the stage’s edge, reaching for the out-flung hands of adoring female fans. Every once in awhile, each member would pause briefly to take a large gulp of the alcoholic beverage that never left their side.

We jumped up and down and pretended to know the words for an hour and a half. In that time; a shorter, rather round middle-aged man had been making his way around the venue, hitting on men and women alike. He was clearly intoxicated. His pink, knitted beanie fit loosely on his bald head and his black nylon fanny-pack was slung over the bottom of his cherry-red hooded sweatshirt. Jacqueline, Adam and I were each approached separately. We also witnessed the little man accosting our neighbors.

As the night wore on, he became increasingly incoherent. He would fold in half, appearing to be sleeping on his feet while swaying back and forth violently. Realizing the man’s predicament, many of the concert go-ers joined forces and dragged/carried him out the door. We quickly forgot the whole scenario and resumed our chaotic bobbing.

At 5 AM, with the concert still going strong and the Chileans showing no signs of tiring, we called it a night. We hovered near the grand, steel doors for a minute, soaking in the last drops of the grungy, sweaty and loud crowd thrashing to Conmocion. And there, as we walked out and away from the warehouse, we came upon the man. He was directly across the street, slumped at the waist sleeping, his hat-clad head resting firmly on the forest green bench in Plaza Brazil and his feet planted solidly on the ground.

As we watched and observed, feeling mixed emotions of pity and compassion for him, a group of people in their mid-20’s clad in black and metal spikes stopped in front of him. Their breath rose in frosty, grey curls as they contemplated the man’s future on this chilly, Saturday night.

“El gorro! …el gorro! …el gorro!” they chanted, prodding the leader to snag the rosy knit hat off his bare head.

They swiped it, flexed in mid-position, waiting to see if he would arouse from his unconscious state. He remained as he was. The group started to walk away, then stopped and simultaneously glanced at the fanny-pack suspended around his waist. The leader thrust forward, unzipped the pack with an experienced swoop and pulled out the man’s wallet. He stashed it in his front pocket, and the pack walked away as if nothing had happened.

I wanted to interfere; to tell them that they can’t take advantage of a man so clearly out of it. But the world has its pecking order. And people that have no qualms about stealing in plain view probably don’t have qualms about doing things I don’t care to think about.

We plunged into the next cab we saw; warm, safe and curled into each other to fight the cold of the night. The cab shuttled us across town and to our spotless, modern 19-story apartment building, where we picked a snack from our full cabinets, changed into a fresh pair of pajamas and fell asleep under our down comforters.