Café Tacuba Survival Catastrophes Aragon Ballroom Chicago, IL November 9, 2008

Wednesday 11/5/08:

I was given guest list access to see the Mexican art-rock band Café Tacuba by my co-worker, Susie. It seemed like a great opportunity to impress my editor by covering a show at the last minute—extra stories are always a great thing in the online publishing world. I emailed my Editor and let him know to expect a piece shortly after the show.

Friday 11/7/08 8:00 p.m.:

After a 10-hour-workday—writing pays some of the bills, but not all—I go home, shower quickly, change and head out to meet with my girlfriend, Rachael and our friend Cristina. Taking the scenic Lake Shore Drive we actual pass up the Lawrence exit on our way to the Aragon Ballroom. Warning sign number one of a bad night; we’re not entirely aware of how to get to the concert venue. A few more wrong turns and we soon arrive at the Aragon ballroom. Running late to meet the rest of the people on the guest list, but we are here…well sort of.

Friday 11/7/08 8:35 p.m.:

Circling the general area of the Aragon we can not find parking at all, yet cars behind us and ahead of us seem to have no problem. The Parking Gods are against us. After 40 minutes of searching we find parking…seven blocks away. After a seven block walk in freezing drizzle, Rachael, Cristina and I arrive at the Aragon only to find that the rest of our list mates have already gone inside. We have to wait 10 minutes in the lobby for Susie. Taking a deep breath I decided to use my time wisely. Those ten minutes are used to survey the scene, the people, and to set up the tone of my review. Looking around I was surrounded by a mix of young and old, Hispanic and white, punk and rocker, hipster and preppy. A mix that makes sense when one thinks of Café Tacuba’s eclectic nature and genre-bending appeal. Words began forming in my mind about how as a whole, this band does what only great bands like the Rolling Stones, u2 or even Depeche Mode can achieve; bring together an amalgamated audience.

As I’m forming potential sentences about the audience I see Susie, finally peeking her head out past the security guards at the door. I walk over to her and she tells me that Rachael and I can enter but that Cristina would have to wait until her sister, Anna, arrives with the extra ticket. I report back to my girlfriend Rachel—as we all know the women are always in charge—and as Rachael is fiercely loyal, she decides that none of us can go in until we can all go in together. Of course that decision presents a problem, as it is now 9:43 and the security guards tell us we have to be inside by 10:00 or else we can’t get in at all. Up until the moment that Anna arrives, time seems to be moving unbearably slow in the fastest way—if that is even possible!?!

Friday 11/7/08 9:52 p.m.:

Relying on another person for your ticket can be a tricky thing, especially when you have only met this person in question only once. Standing in a cold lobby waiting for a woman you have only seen once makes you jump every time a singular woman walks thru the doors in hopes she is the one with the magic ticket. Eventually though, my terrible memory kicks in and I remember what Anna looks like when she is walking thru the door. Of course it could simply have been the fact that she looked lost and confused. The horrible wait is over and we are ready to walk in the doors. We go to the door to get our names checked off the list, but Anna is not on the list, moreover Cristina is not on the list. This presents a real problem. Rachael would not allow us to enter without Cristina, I need to be inside so that I can turn my review in, the simple solution would be to go in without them—Rachael wouldn’t allow that to happen (And I would never leave Rachael behind, Cristina on the other hand…).

Friday 11/7/08 10:00 p.m.:

The doors close and we are still standing on the wrong side of them, still trying to find a solution. Let’s face it, I really don’t want to be the guy that says “I’ll have that story for you” and then have nothing. After several minutes of calling people who then call other people, Susie once again appears with yet another ticket to our rescue. At this point, and by my math, we have two people on a guest list and one physical ticket—that’s only three entrances—but four people waiting to get inside. I have a story to write and thankfully Anna is gracious enough to let Cristina have that extra ticket. Once inside we find our spot on the sticky floor of the Aragon Ballroom.

Friday 11/7/08 10:30 p.m.:

Finally we are together with our group, a little more than two hours after the doors opened, glimpses of all four members of Café Tacuba appear backstage. One by one they walk onto the stage heading straight for their respectful instruments—Emmanuel to his keyboard among other melody making toys, the Rangel brothers, Joselo and Enrique—to their guitar and bass—and Rubén to his guitar and the microphone. Two melodic, almost lulling songs—“Seguir Siendo” and “Tengo Todo”—go by and Ruben welcomes the audience to the show. Ruben and his band mates are warm, friendly, inviting and cordial about being in their home for the evening. It is very much like going to visit a friend you haven’t seen in a while. Their songs for the night will make you feel nostalgic; perhaps about the last time you saw them perform or perhaps about the first time you realized that their music is art. Café Tacuba creates music that is form over function, but in a manner that still actually functions. It is not merely music for music’s sake.

Friday 11/7/08 10:45 p.m.:

The tempo of the songs starts to pick up and as the melodies started to jam, Cristina along with our friend Gil, decide it was time to venture closer to the action and take part in a mosh pit or two. While Café Tacuba concerts do not have one continuous mosh pit, there are those songs like “Pinche Juan” and “La Ingrata,” that can incite them. While Cristina and Gil were off moshing to “Las Flores”—a cartoonish sounding melody played over a mid-tempo snare—“Rarotonga”—a head-nodding-keyboard laden song about spied cheating—but before “La Ingrata”—a quasi-Mexican traditional sounding song about heartbreak over an ungrateful woman—was playing, Gil was dragging Cristina out from the crowd.

Friday 11/07/08 11:00 p.m.:

It could have been the heat and the thick moist oxygen, or simply the mass of sweaty people rubbing and shoving against each other that caused the next obstacle of the night. Cristina pulled Gil to the side and told him that she was feeling anxious and couldn’t feel her legs. I had no clue of this since I was busy working—taking notes and coming up with wordy phrases about the band’s performance as a whole and was standing very far away the action (it’s pretty hard to take notes in a mosh pit, not that I have tried before).

Before they make it out of the crowd, Cristina falls to the floor and since she was holding onto Gil, her nails embedded deep into his forearm, nearly taking him down as well. Gil, the gentleman he is, picks her up off the ground and holds her up until—as Gil put it—her eyes are fully open and no longer rolling toward the back of her head. Slowly, like walking with your grandmother, Gil and Cristina finally emerge from the frenzy. Rachael, being a better and more responsible friend, notices that something is wrong with Cristina. I am too busy with the show on stage to notice my imminent surroundings. Rachael asks me twice to get some water for Cristina. Still too busy to be bothered that instant “why me?” reaction enters my mind—of course since I have been dating Rachael for a few years now, I know better than to say something that stupid aloud. So, off I go to get some water. While wandering thru the crowd looking for a concession stand I can hardly help to think that I could have avoided this had I just gone to the V.I.P area. I find water, but when I get back to our previous spot I don’t find Rachael, Gil and Cristina.

My natural inclination is that they went to the paramedic area, conveniently located near the entrance. I look around, and ask another group of people that I know if they had seen anyone of them, if not all three. Gil’s brother informs me that they left the main floor and pointed—in no exact direction either, just a vague point indicating that he did not want to be bothered. So I go searching for my friends, I mean how hard can it be to find two people dragging a half-conscious girl around?

A few unanswered text messages asking “where are you?” are sent and I wander around, holding a cup of cold water in a wax cup that is ready to start leaking, I come across the EMTs. Maybe I found Cristina. Instead there was a girl who was complaining about her ankle—she could have walked it off and been fine (I think I saw her hoping around before we left). EMTs found, but no half-conscious friend, I start looking around again and I spot a big puff of curly hair—I have found Rachael.

Friday 11/07/08 11:13 p.m.:

I place the near dripping wax cup of water in front of Cristina, and she looks up at me like she had never seen me before and takes the cup, she’s still a ways away from gaining her sensibilities. Security guards keep passing by, some stop to ask if she is ok. One asks if she needs the paramedics, answered by slow head shakes of no.

Friday 11/07/08 11:17 p.m.:

Cristina says she is fine and starts to stand up. Her legs tremble—reminiscent to Bambi learning to walk—she grabs her head and decides to sit back down. I wondered if she thought that maybe the paramedics weren’t a bad idea. Another minute of resting and again she gets up, this time with more success, and starts to head back for the sticky dance floor before deciding that fresh oxygen—not the humid, stale, sweaty kind is the way to go.

Friday 11/07/08 11:35 p.m.:

After an extended break, that includes more water and an offer for pizza—maybe she’s weak from not eating—Cristina decides she should go home. At this point, I’m thinking to myself that I am totally screwed. I have a story to write, but an obligation to my friend as well. Journalistic integrity be damned or friendship be damned? I can hear plenty of songs being played from the lobby, but I have already missed a good portion of the show. Journalistic integrity has gone out the window and so we head out.

Friday 11/07/08 11:50 p.m.:

The previous freezing drizzle is slowly becoming a full on rain. I leave the girls behind (probably not smart to drag a girl who can barely walk 7 blocks) and walk to the car. On the ride back home Cristina starts to get her color back and doesn’t look like someone who just woke up from anesthesia. She also gets her appetite back, so we stop at the Wendy’s on Clybourn. While in line ordering three chicken sandwiches and some drinks Cristina realizes that in all the haze she has dropped her ID and debit card—it really hasn’t been a great night for her. I pay for the food, Cristina cancels her debit card, we eat—one of us devours our sandwich, but for the sake of not seeming like a slob, I won’t say who.

Saturday 11/08/08 12:18 a.m.:

We finally arrive at Cristina home, as she apologizes profusely for ruining our night. Rachael, being the better friend, tells her that she didn’t ruin anything and that we were just worried about her—I partially agree. I take Rachael home and call it a night.

I wake up the following morning for work, write an email to my Editor in hopes he will be understanding and not just fire me on the spot. Waiting for a reply, I grill Gil for details of the rest of the concert. He shares with me some of the songs I missed like “Dejater Caer” and “Maria” and that the tone of the concert was slightly disappointing. Hearing that made me wonder if I would have felt the same, or if I had written something to that affect in the review had I been able to write one.

Friday night probably was that night that wasn’t meant to happen. I wonder if I had stayed for the remainder of the show and it had been a horrible show would I have been able to say that or if the night turned out that way to save us from a horrible show. Maybe Friday night happened exactly the way it was meant to.

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