The Phases of the Moon

Back in the mid-90's, the Tijuanense writer Luis Humberto Crosthwaite started a small, independent publishing house, Yoremito. It was dedicated to publishing books by authors from northern Mexico, and was positioned as an avenue towards further strengthening a growing readership in northern Mexican literature. Unfortunately the press folded after publishing about 11 books. While a project that gained a lot of interest, it couldn't survive without financial support.
However, those few books that were released are out there still. A testament to the power of independent publishing, I still hope that Yoremito can be somehow resuscitated.

One of the final books that was published was dedicated to rock albums. Written by one of the great music aficionados in Tijuana, the poet Roberto Castillo, the book --Banquete de pordioseros-- was a listing of 50 great rock albums. But the book was not an encyclopedia in the style of the Trouser Press. Rather, it was a memoir: Castillo's life as framed through music. A type of literary mix-tape of the author's top albums. For example, in his listing on Manu Chao's Clandestino, he writes about a weekend in Tijuana, drinking beer, being at a carne asada, talking about music and making random lists while Chao's album plays throughout. Almost a decade later, Nick Hornby --another great music fan-- published a similar book, Songbook (later published as 31 Songs) on another independent publishing house, McSweeney's.

Banquete de pordioseros included not only the essays by Castillo, but also an essay by David Ojeda and top ten lists by musicians, writers, and artists. There was also a top ten list by me. Making it was one of the most nerve wracking experiences of my life. It took me days to create. At one point, Crosthwaite sent me the essay by David Ojeda, to share how cool it was. It didn't help, as I noticed that Ojeda also faced the same issues on how to put together a top ten. HIs solution was to look at the records that were always stacked by the stereo. I began to write a response that I never submitted to Crosthwaite, though I sent in my top ten. Going through the archives this evening, I found it.

Here it is. A piece I called "The Phases of the Moon," and that I dedicated to David Ojeda:

I remember them all, the Psychedelic Furs, R.E.M, the Talking Heads. Bands that affected my life. And what about Wire Train? How to forget Wire Train? These were the bands, growing up in northern California, listening over static filled airwaves to a small radio station in Nevada City. A station which had a program on late night Friday nights dedicated to the newest sounds, punk, new wave, alternative sounds. By day it was high school, surrounded by a student population that listened to Phil Collins, Air Supply, REO Speedwagon. Occasionally there would be someone who believed himself a New Waver and would go off doing New Wave things: multicolored hair, dog collars, sing the lyrics to “Teenage Enemas Nurses in Bondage.” On Friday nights I’d be upstairs in my room, listening intently to a radio station from high in the mountains, trying to decipher the sounds that came through the speakers, the Gang of Four “Damaged Goods,” the Cure “A Forest,” the Stranglers, “All Roads Lead to Rome.” Occasionally the local rock station, would venture from its staple of the Moody Blues, the Rolling Stones, and Led Zeppelin, to play new music: the Plimsouls, “A Million Miles Away,” R.E.M. “Radio Free Europe,” Wall of Voodoo, “Mexican Radio,” Translator, “Everywhere That I’m Not.” I remember them all, coming in over the speakers and sometimes through the television via the new medium of music videos: Killing Joke “Eighties,” Ultravox, “The Voice.” And what about Wire Train? How to forget “Chamber of Hellos,” or “I’ll Do You?” How to forget “Love Against Me?”

At the age of 18 I was uncertain of many things: uncomfortable within my own skin, unsure of dialogue and face-to-face relations. At the university I attended I headed straight for the one logical area for me; the campus radio station, KCSC. As a disc jockey on the Saturday night shift I had no problem with communication. I spoke into the microphone to an imagined listener and expanded my musical knowledge outward by reading the music journals and encyclopedia’s that were left lying around: CMJ, Trouser Press, and The History of Rock and Roll. I discovered Guadalcanal Diary, I discovered Big Black, I discovered X-Mal Deutschland.

I entered the radio in 1984 in the waning days of Post punk and left it in 1990 as Grunge was rearing its ugly head through the College music underground. In between were six years, from Public Image Limited to Sound Garden. I remember them all: the local bands, the radio station parties, concerts by Los Lobos, the Replacements, the Del Fuegos, the Cure, Fugazi, X-Mal Deutschland, Wire Train. It was about music, the soundtrack to the crazy musical that makes up our lives.

Yes David, it is true, music affects all of us.

Music too for me is one of those unlisted essentials that governs my life along with those other essentials as breathing, air, and food: coffee in the morning, a shot of tequila in the evening, waking up next to my wife, watching movies —mindless action films in the summer, “art” films in the winter—, discussions with friends, lounging on the carpet. Music is the thread that runs through all.

Music has defined my life for many years, the earliest song that I remember is Terry Jacks “Seasons in the Sun,” a terrible confession to make from one who later listened to punk rock. Maybe that’s the explanation for my later musical tastes. From those questionable beginnings it was the music that filtered through my house, the pop that my parents listened to —the overrated Beatles, the music of the American Top 40— the Chicano Afro-Latin stylings that my tíos listened to— Santana, the Tower of Power— and the Mexican boleros that filtered throughout my grandmothers house in Mexicali.

Music grabs us, takes us into its grip. With particular songs we are transported to other times, moments, memories. Yes, it is true. You know it and I know it. Coming home from a day at the office I will first turn on the stereo to whatever I had playing before I left for the day. Before leaving on a trip I will flip through my cassettes, choosing the tapes that will form the soundtrack to my drive. My wife in particular hates this last one as she prefers to listen to the radio when we take a long drive.

But you understand, don’t you? You too have felt the grip of a particular song that has winded its way through your insides.

So our friend Luis Humberto Crosthwaite called to talk about this book on rock music by Roberto Castillo that his press was publishing. Luis was hoping to including top ten lists from members of rock bands, writers —among them José Agustín and you—, and why not? A list from a former college radio disc jockey. A cool idea, no? And I thought, yes, of course, an excellent idea. But then the terror set into me too.

My ten favorite albums?

Where to begin?

As I wandered about town, I considered the problem I had placed myself in. Do I take the academic and pedantic route, list the albums that I believe every rock listener should have? Or do I take the more personal route, simply make a list of those albums which have defined my life (and if Billy Joel is on that list, then so be it)? Driving home from the office I thought of the different paths that my musical memory was taking. Santana to Tower of Power to the Velvet Underground to The Stooges to Robert Palmer to Café Tacuba to Pere Ubu to War to Caifanes to Nina Hagen to Mecano to the Talking Heads to Tom Waits to the Cocteau Twins. And what about the Lounge Lizards? Could they be considered? And if so, what about the Balanescu Quartet?

And yet, David I cannot agree with you. The choosing of the ten favorite albums is not easy to do. It is not a question of pulling out those albums that we always have near the stereo. What about those of us who constantly change those albums? What then? Does this make me less a lover of music? Less a man because I cannot pull 10 albums out of the air? My musical tastes change, my ever-changing moods; perhaps governed by the phases of the moon:

New Moon: This moon presents new or distinct waves, populated by such bands as Kraftwerk, The Psychedelic Furs, OMD, Plastilina Mosh, Magazine, and Devo.

Red Moon: a moon of muffled sounds mixed, transformed, and filtered through sonic blasts held together by odd beats. Bands like: Pere Ubu, Wire, Sonic Youth, Meat Beat Manifesto, the Propellerheads.

Quarter Moon/Sickle Moon: sounds that weave brief flashes of light through darkness. Bands like X-Mal Deutschland, the Cure, King Crimson, Caifanes, the Stranglers.

Harvest Moon: The Pixies, Midnight Oil, R.E.M, the Police, Soda Stereo, the Smashing Pumpkins, the Jam, Manu Chao, Wire Train.

Half Moon: The Style Council, Mano Negra, Café Tacuba, Paralamas, the English Beat, the Fabulosos Cadillacs, Poncho Kingz, the Beastie Boys.

Blue Moon: The blue moon is a rare moon. These bands are more ethereal in sound, bands like Dead Can Dance, Cocteau Twins, Xymox, This Mortal Coil, Japan, Breathless, Air, and Madredeus.

Full Moon: The night of the full moon is a classic moon. The bands; Creedence Clearwater Revival, Santana, War, ELO, Steely Dan, the Replacements.

Black Moon: Big Black, Mission of Burma, Gang of Four, Víctimas del Dr. Cerebro, the Cramps.

My musical history is wrapped around my life. While living in Mexico City, friends would send me mix tapes to keep me up to date on the scene. One friend from the radio station sent me a few tapes with the new stuff that was coming into the station station. One tape I remember contained the latest single from Xymox, a band whose album, Medusa, I had been listening to constantly the year before. There was also “I’ve been Tired,” from a band I’d never heard, the Pixies. I remember it changed the Mexico City air as I traveled on the metro, listening to the song on my Walkman. It reminded me of the first time I heard Big Black. “Kerosene” was requested one night during my show. The crazy metal sounds that Steve Albini drew out of his guitar hooked me immediately. The Pixies took me back to Big Black who took me back to Wire who took me forward, years later, to Nirvana and Rage Agains the Machine.

I remember them all, those songs that sank below my skin, those albums that played constantly on my stereo. In the end, the exercise that brought me to formulate a list of my favorite rock albums became a trip across the musical geography of my life. It’s all about music isn’t it? The soundtrack of our lives.

the year of living placelessly

In the 8th grade I went to three different schools in three different parts of the fine state of California. I began my school year at C.K. Price Junior High in the small agricultural community of Orland, Califas. There were all the people I'd grown up with, spent time with, fought with. From the age of five, when dad took the training wheels off my bike (a wonderful red bike), I had travelled all over that tiny farming town. On the weekends I would ride with my younger sister to the parks, or just around the small downtown, weaving in and out of traffic, stopping to say hi to some of the viejitos in the community, the older mexicanos who had arrived in that town in the 50's, originally as braceros and later as workers in the orchards --picking olives, oranges, and peaches-- where work was steady and they were more or less tolerated as a part of the community. I had relatives living all over that town: they were the reason why my parents ended up there, a few months before I was born. A month into 8th grade, however, I had to move away. My parents had divorced, after years of constant separations, my younger sister was diagnosed with cancer and lost a leg, and dad sold the house, forcing mom into one of the most difficult decisions in her life: separating her children as she couldn't afford to keep us all together. My youngest sister, less than a year old, went to live with my grandmother in Mexicali, on the US/Mexico border. My brother and second youngest sister, moved in with dad's family. Mom went with my sister, the second born, to Mountain View, California. My sister underwent chemotherapy at the Stanford Children's Hospital. As the oldest child, I was the one left over. Dad's family didn't want me, and mom, after many discussions with the owner of an apartment complex where no children were allowed, was allowed to have my sister (though she pretty much lived in the hospital).
Oddly, the anti-child apartment complex was across the street from a junior high school.
With no other option available, mom smuggled me into her apartment. I was told never to go outside, that I could only go to school, but right afterwards I was to head home and stay inside. She found a job at a chip making facility and spent hours on an assembly line worrying about her two oldest children, one in a hospital, the other sneaking around trying to be invisible. That is where my comic books and a love for reading in general came in handy. On the weekends I would stay with my sister in the hospital, sleeping in a cot beside her bed. We shared a large room with five other kids in the cancer ward. At least I was able to go outside.
Of that second junior high, I have vague memories. Met a couple of kids, but of course couldn't hang out afer school. Suffered in most of my classes, save for English, Art, and French (classes I tended to do well in, however, my grades did drop there too). Math was my great failing, though oddly negative numbers made a lot of sense. Maybe not so oddly.
At Christmas we went to Mexicali as we always did. After New Year's we all began to disperse again, returning to our respective homes.
I didn't go back to Mountain View.
One of my tía's took me in and I went to live with her family in Imperial Beach, California. That's where I finished 8th grade, and completed the 9th. It was the perfect arrangement, mom was happy knowing that I was living with family, and I was happy living with my cousins in southern California.
Soon after starting 9th grade, mom was able to reunite most of her children under one roof. My sister had a new doctor in San Diego, my brother and second sister left dad's home, and we all moved into a townhome next to the border. Only my youngest sister remained, she grew up with my grandmother for the next decade.
At beginning of 10th grade, my sophomore year, we moved again. Back to Orland.
La vida es, muchas veces, móvil.

My dictionary

Escritor: Por qué? Quizá la respuesta más corta y correcta de esa pregunta es no sé. No sé por qué escribo. Quizá por eso me siento frente a la computadora cada mañana.
Quizá escribo porque no puedo hacer muchas otras cosas. Soy pésimo para los deportes. Yo era el niño que nadie quería en su equipo. Tengo un primo que es un atleta natural, su papá era un coach de un equipo de béisbol para jóvenes, equipo donde su hijo era uno de los estrellas. Una vez —la única vez— me metieron al equipo. Claro, no aporté nada, no ayudé ni un mínimo y si mal no recuerdo, perdimos. El fútbol americano, mal. Quizá podía jugar el fútbol más o menos, pero lo dejé cuando pateé a un bato en la cara. Eso sí fue terrible, porque el tipo estaba en un gang. Pasé un mes escondiéndome de sus compas en la pandilla. El basket…menos. Demasiado chaparrito.
Y con lentes? Los deportes no eran para mí. Hay pocos deportes para un miope.
Siempre era malo para el trabajo en los campos, los files como los llamábamos en mi comunidad. Ir a la pisca me parecía fatal, horas debajo del sol en los huertos de olivo o de naranja…no thanks.
No me puedo concentrar por mucho tiempo en una cosa. Demasiado televisión.
No bailo bien. En la secundaria iba a los bailes de mi escuela y me decían que bailaba bien. Pero era la década de los 80, todos bailábamos al new wave, espasmódicamente a las rolas de los Talking Heads. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.
Dinero? Soy malo para los ahorros. Siempre estoy comprando libros y discos.
Conversación? Soy medio torpe en eso también. Las palabras siempre se me quedan trabadas antes de salir por la boca.
No me gusta hablar por teléfono. Me aterra tener que llamar a alguien. Pensé que cuando mis hermanos y yo le regalamos una cuenta de e-mail a mi mamá que ya tenía todo hecho. Pero la computadora de ella ya no quiere conectarse al internet.
Tengo miedo a los perros. Estoy alérgico a los gatos.
No me gusta volar. Me encantan los viajes. Viajar por tren es una de mis cosas favoritas. Caminar por una ciudad, perderme en sus calles, también. Volar, nada. Pero, por desgracia, lo tengo que hacer. Lo bueno del mundo es que existe la Dramamina.
Quizá escribo porque en realidad no puedo hacer muchas otras cosas. No es que se me hace fácil escribir. Al contrario, escribir es difícil para mí.
William Gass dice: “I write because I hate. A lot. Hard.”
En fin, no sé por qué escribo, y la verdad es que no lo quiero saber. Porque quizá al saberlo dejaré de hacerlo. Ya no habría misterio y simplemente sería otro trabajo.

Made in Mexico; Nacido en el USA

I first crossed the US/Mexico border before I was 1 year old (unless you believe in the life begins at conception business, then I first crossed the border before I was 1). I don't remember that crossing, but it began a life of border crossings. From home on this side, to home on that side, my life has been shaped by that border. Here's a blog that takes off from my other blog (confessions of a border crosser). Why start a new one? Por qué no?
Ready? Ahí vamos...