A metalhead defends ‘chucu-chucu’

I squeezed the ‘play’ button until it latched on to the bottom. Using a pair of pulleys and powered by two 'double A' batteries, the Walkman’s mechanism then stretched the magnetic tape and slowly carried it from one roll to the other. “Cradle Of Filth”, said the cassette on its A side, the English band’s logo drawn by myself with a ‘Pelikan Micropunta’ black ink pen, my whole 13-year-old artistic drive at the service of that messy doodle of calculated illegibility. The headphones pumped a hiss in my ears and, then, perfection: guttural shrieks, guitars distorted up to engine-like pitches, sinister bells and so fast drum playing that one had to wonder: “hey, what’s the urge?”. Subsequently came the mental images: the Carpathian Forests in winter. Beautiful, anemic-skin women, submerged in tubs full of blood, that which they so lacked inside their bodies. Bites in the neck, tits in the air, firelight and shiny fangs. And Satan, the diablo himself, making appearances here and there in the shape of a goat that bleated not, took no dumps and scratched no itch.

I enjoyed all that aggressive cheesiness for a while until the Walkman stopped with no other explanation than a mechanic crack, which left me at the mercy of what -in harsh reality- surrounded me. It wasn’t that much of a satanic winter in Transylvania, but rather Easter in Melgar, Tolima, a resort town in the most suffocating corner of Colombia’s Andean mountains. Plantain trees rather than snowy pines. The sweet smell of ‘Coconut Tan Accelerator Cream’, but not that of burnt Christians in a pit. On my way to the quintessential Bogota hot retreat, I sure had driven past a small village called Silvania, and even had done so aboard a bus baptized ‘Trans’-something. But I certainly hadn’t seen vampiric beings in velvet dresses there; more like crispy pork skin chips and corn cobs which you, oh yeah, ‘sank your fangs in’. Nor was there a medieval silver cup in my hand overflowing with hemophiliac red wine. From a warm plastic glass I rather drank a fever-colored Orange soft drink (Naranja Postobón), which, combined with the condensed milk I had licked minutes before from a can, was causing a slight glycemic crisis.

There was no blood in a copper tub either. Instead, a solution of chlorine and child's piss floated in the pool, one which -I believe so even today- provides people with this peculiar tan. No naked European women all around me, although sixth grade vacation were provided with the necessary eroticism by preadolescent flirtations with girls called Linda Katerine or Mery Alejandra. And finally, the ultimate contrast: that metal band, abundant in noise and hair, was replaced by what was heard behind the cicadas and children's games: Bonita pero mentirosa (Pretty But Also A Liar) in the voice of Pastor López, his multiple golden rings sweating at over 30°C.

And so, I discovered in metal my first snobbery, a battle between what I liked the most and what I had at hand. Two opposing identities in conflict, right there: I Pantera, I Paradise Lost and I Iron Maiden? or I Willy Colón, I Juan Luis Guerra and I Joe Arroyo? Although I liked the first version and the second one I thought I hated, my musical biography would eventually end up going from black and white to a grotesque gray, everything together in a potpourri of impossible taxonomy. I today cannot play my music randomly on Spotify or whatever: no logic or sane mood seems to be behind playing Fucked With a Knife by Cannibal Corpse and then Micaela, by Pete Rodríguez, immediately afterwards.

But there were such strong 'chucu-chucu' (tropical music) features in me that, one or two years after Melgar I would be surprised by my own micro-dancing of Rikarena’s ‘merengue’ songs at birthday parties while chatting in the misfits section. First, I discreetly marked the rhythm of Cuando el amor se daña (When love is damaged) with the heel of my metalhead black, leather boot. And then, ten minutes after, I used the whole table as an African drum set, barely caring if I spilled rum-and-coke glasses. Just as I did at home: Angel Of Death played in the stereo and my homework desk would immediately be transformed into a huge eighties-like, unnecessarily big drum set: two bass drums, fifteen cymbals, eight toms, pens as drumsticks.

In order for the infallible ‘corroncho’ (tropical tacky) genes to finish coming to light, the dance floor came to my life. I would very soon be accompanying the salsa percussion track with feet, shoulders and arms altogether, while singing the following words in a nasal voice: “an adventure is more beautiful if we do not look at the time on the clock” (lyrics of Una Aventura, by Grupo Niche). That seemed a much more fun experience in the company of a woman than smashing faces with other thugs in a Rock Al Parque mosh pit under the live music of a band called Purulent, their dumb bass player dressed with the Millonarios soccer team shirt. Tropical song lyrics are either interesting or funny, while metal lyrics are not even in the sincere interest of the guy who writes them. Mikael Åkerfeldt himself, the best guttural voice in history, could perfectly growl the lyrics of La Pollera Colorá (a famous cumbia) and very, very few would notice.

Neither the bongoes, nor the ‘marimba’ (a Pacific region xylophone) or the trumpet are often in my headphones nowadays. Tropical sounds remain commonly within the borders of sociability and celebration, while brutality reigns in solitude. And drawing, thinking, running or cooking while listening to Sepultura still takes me to better places than when I do those things to the sound of Wilfrido Vargas.

Despite the described process, I bear pride in the fact that I was able to develop listening habits that are to the musical world what a platypus is to the animal universe: absurd. Musical miscegenation has armored me against any other snobbery. Because when you are a gothic metalhead fanatic at the age of 13 but end up dancing La Gozadera years later in coconut smelling club, you no longer trust coolness or supremacy of tastes.