Tear it all down and put it back together

Model to (dis)arm

On December 16, 2020, the documentary series premiered on Netflix in six chapters Break everything. The history of rock in Latin America, directed by Picky Talarico and with a script by Nicolás Entel. Taking its name from the theme break it all by the Uruguayan group Los Shakers, the subtitle promised a lot to fans of the genre. Previous television and film material had addressed some of its edges, almost always from a national perspective or focused on its emblematic figures. The announcement of a visual “story” presenting a tour of the continental area was extremely attractive.

If something is appreciated in the first place, it is the commendable compilation of historical film materials. Images of concerts, festivals and recording sessions, many unpublished or rarely seen before, were rescued for the occasion in a work of authentic archaeology. In addition, the almost one hundred interspersed interviews, with musicians of different nationalities and generations, is also a laudable contribution, although the selection criteria raise suspicion. There are honest criteria and reliable memories (special mention for Rubén Rada) along with clichés and elaborate phraseology to paste on the screen. However, the conjunction of ingredients gave it a well-achieved dramaturgical dynamism, especially if we do not overlook the fact that it is an entertainment product, rather than a rigorous historical thesis.     

The Argentinian Gustavo A. Santaolalla, in his dual capacity as interviewee and one of the executive producers of the material, works as a sort of guiding thread. If you also take into account that he is a renowned creator and record producer, with an impressive record of service (awards apart), his inclusion is unobjectionable. However, his participation as judge and party is what has prompted a significant number of criticisms of Break everything. The continuous verbal and visual references to his "godchildren" (Molotov, Los Prisioneros, Café Tacvba) exacerbated the spirits, and the networks have been filled with memes, ridicule and denials around his figure.  

Where the umbrella really gets stuck is in the subtitle of the serial. Sold as “the history” of rock in Latin America (although Brazil is the great —but not the only— exclusion) the reality is different. Focused on Mexico and Argentina (rather on their capitals and, if anything, some other large city) with occasional flashes to the scenes of Chile, Uruguay, Peru or Colombia, it ignored the rest of the nations. Although it is a marketing move “to the face”, it would have been more defensible to replace the lapidary article “la” with the modest pronoun “una” before the word “history”.

Excessively focused on the great productions blessed by the macro leisure industry, it is paradoxical that at one point Santaolalla mentions that when he arrived in the United States in the mid-70s, as an exile, there was a "corporate rock" (the phrase in English is his ) against which he tried his own revulsive by going headlong into the new wave, which was the "no more" of the time. All this could be very good, if we didn't realize that the avalanche of Latin groups which he later produced, in turn generated a new “corporate rock”, alien to the undergrounds that keep the genre alive and transformable. Without questioning the quality of these artists, the logistical, technological and promotional equipment of the large companies put in their favor, resulting in massive sales, is a sign of that new-fangled corporatism that is far from representing the totality of Latin American cultists. Just as Toto, Journey or Kansas were not “all” the rock that was made in the United States in the 70s, neither Caifanes nor Soda Stereo speak for the vastness of directions that integrates rock from the Río Bravo to Tierra del Fuego.

Those interviewed range from veterans such as Javier Bátiz, Litto Nebbia, Hugo Fattoruso, Enrique Guzmán and Billy Bond to more recent names, although not always relevant. The generic and generational diversity favors the interweaving of juicy first-hand opinions, sometimes with the mantle of the (too much) ego hanging around. But I think that, if it was a matter of seeking criteria consistent with the thesis of the serial, it was not very serious to ask Residente or Mon Laferte to give their opinion. Both are personalities with high media exposure, but you have to do a double exercise of conceptual abstraction and Buddhist patience to link them to rock. Would it be understandable to ask Ozzy Osbourne his opinion about the changüí?   

With punctual —albeit epidermal— allusions to early rock and roll, blues, punk and metal, styles such as progressive rock or jazz-rock have no place in the chapters. The series adopts as the sonorous axis of an intangible “Latinity” the dissimilar fusions that groups such as Aterciopelados or Maldita Vecindad fly. The origins of such a line are traced back to the adaptation made by the Chicano Ritchie Valens to the Veracruz son La Bamba, but the cardinal role of Carlos Santana is ignored, whose version of the Hey, how is it going of Tito Puente is much more linked to everything that came after. 

Deriving from such omissions and partiality a hidden agenda, of whatever sign, is (at least) risky. There are those who accuse Netflix products of supporting a "politically correct" discourse based on permissible standards for the global left, others assume them as an exhibition of the power of the media at the service of the right-wing hegemonic elite, willing to homogenize cultures under a (feigned) plurality. That is, the same with the same: each one sees according to his own eye.

But biased, lavish, attractive and questionable at the same time, Break everything It is a necessary material in times of opinion. Generator of debates from the first moment, it can be seen as one more piece in the audiovisual gear that cries out for Latin American rock. A platform to discuss and make the memory that we need so much. 

Cuba or the persistence of the weed

That Cuba is one of the many absences in the series is not unreasonable. Surely there are many who, choking on timba, trova and Buena Vista Social Club, believe that rock and roll does not exist on the Island. However, a large number of journalists, scholars, musicians and researchers from different countries agree in pointing out the Cuban quartet The Llopis among the pioneers in capitalizing on and disseminating in the continent the proposal to make covers in Spanish on American songs. The series doesn't even mention them, while establishing Mexicans like Los Locos del Ritmo and Los Teen Tops in a prominent place. Beyond tidbits about who gave the exact starting signal for that aspect, the truth is that the adaptations made by Los Llopis entered the repertoires of the groups that tried to catch up on the matter, even in Spain.

It should also be said that rock in Cuba —with more than 60 years on the road— has not achieved the solidity it has in other places. The nationalist paranoia that the instances of power encouraged, with special virulence after the 1959 Revolution, and in particular after Fidel Castro's speech in 1963, stigmatized him for decades, until he collected pita in the year 2000 when, not to mention the excesses previous ones, he tried a tolerance based on the “nothing happened here”, using a statue of John Lennon. Those who played it (“with little guitars in Elvispreslian attitudes”) and those who consumed it (almost always secretly) fell under institutional fire through blacklists, censorship and varying degrees of repression. Even today we live more a tolerance towards rock, than a complete assimilation. That is a very important factor —although it is not the only one— to understand why our rock does not play in the major leagues.

For their part, musicians and followers assumed self-defense from the closure. The timid creativity of the early days was followed by uncritical imitation. From the 1960s until well into the 1980s, the vast majority of groups chose to recycle the foreign songbook. In fact, today there are many followers of what Professor Mario Masvidal called "Jurassic rock”, appealing to the genuine nostalgia of the pepillos of yesteryear.  

Looking at the present, rock made in Cuba is far from exhibiting a consistent discography, many of its productions leave much to be desired, and although the performance standard may be high, they lack consolidated promotion and sales spaces. The scene is numerically rickety in terms of diversity of styles, predominating the covers, punk and metal sung in English, with little recurrence to other lines. In the media, their presence is limited, reaching only a small sector of the population. Although there are events and festivals throughout the country, it is very rare that one attracts a few thousand attendees. Nor has it developed a body of theory and analysis through journal articles or academic theses, and the fanzines that survive devote most of their space to what happens beyond our shores.

Despite the obstacles, many groups have signed with foreign independent companies to get their work out and thus access a promotional circuit, albeit a low profile one. This would not be possible if they lacked quality, or at least the quality required by those labels. 

Of course our rock has potential. And I'm not just talking about the one who (by submitting to the statement in the Netflix series) seeks a hybridization with a certain diffuse “Cubanity”. It's good that there are groups that mix this with that, a little from here and a little from there, tumbadoras with distortion, Yoruba chants and double pedal bass drum. But that —let's not lose sight of it— is not the only valid language for rock. Music does not fit an identity card. Cuba is more than lying down, caldosa, Chan Chan and pullovers with the flag. Whoever reduces the human and creative wealth of a nation to such obviousness does not understand what a country is. 

So, if there is a trait that characterizes the current state of rock made in Cuba, it is its persistence as "bad grass", the one that has allowed it to survive even in the most adverse circumstances.

The need for little signs

The Gordian knot and axis of the debate around the docuseries lies in the subtitle. Calling it “The history of rock in Latin America” is excessive when it is confirmed that, except for a couple of countries (yes: indisputable meccas of the genre) and brief and tangential allusions to two or three more, there is not even remotely an approach to the rest of the region.   

Also the meaning of "rock" and its plausible equivalents remain on the table. That is outlined from the first minutes of the series, when several figures comment on what they understand by rock, and there is no consensus. Such a healthy conceptual lack of definition, dating back more than half a century, is what gave it maturity and diversity, making room for all kinds of currents that, at first glance, might seem unconnected. Depeche Mode, Gong and Joni Mitchell share pages in the same encyclopedias; Moris and Pappo's Blues were part of a similar brotherhood; Botellita de Jerez, Decibel and Rhythm Dangerous stand out for their scene; Los Dan, Sputnik and Arte Vivo participated in the 1981 Winter Hot rock festival in Havana. Distant in terms of sonority, they are united by the elasticity of the term. No one is the absolute owner of the truth: everyone is part of it.  

Where does the obsession with a supposedly national identity come from? Is it only inherent to (so-called) Latin rock? Does it become an essential requirement to insert into the rock sound the elements that the hegemonic tradition has blessed as idiosyncratic? Why is this obligation only required or expected of rock performers, and not of electroacoustic or chamber music? Does a tango singer in Havana feel impelled to put some codes to avoid confusion? should i touch My Funny Valentine with maracas if you want to show “cubanía”? Why The black Tomasa (a son by Cuban Guillermo Rodríguez Fife) in the version made by Caifanes, represents Mexican rock, and not a composition by Luzbel, Memo Briseño or Nazca?

In Cuba there are groups such as Síntesis or Mejora that have been displaying for decades an interesting fusion of rock and other foreign genres with those of the Island. Montserrat and Tendencia have resorted to the same formula, but from the metal side. At the same time, we have had those who do not practice any type of hybridization. Pretending that some are "more Cuban" than others, that they represent the country and others do not, is to confuse terms, in addition to reducing nationality to a bunch of stereotypes.

Another approach in the series is to present rock as a protest art, against the de facto powers. However, his socially questioning angle is only one of many possible and not his main equation. Most of his considered "great hymns" do not even come close to touching on these themes. Nor does rock exhibit a specific political affiliation, even though demagogues from all sides insist on the contrary. Among its followers there are from the right and left, religious and satanists, militarists, pacifists and disconnected from any reality. Its sound (if it has one in particular) has equally served the most dissimilar speeches: for and against every idea that is in the air. You may or may not agree with its proposals, but I think that is one of the reasons for its universalization. Respond to all paradigms without being tied to any. In that sense, it is a means and not an end.

Of course, just as the fact that its borders are so blurred allows it to grow and regenerate, it also serves to make smart people want to pass pig by hare. A cumbia played with electric guitars is still a cumbia. The ability to deceive has its limits.

After more than 60 years of constant history, rock is more than its textual discourse, more than a specific sound or aesthetic. It is not even feasible to reduce it to an “attitude”: between Air Supply and Judas Priest there is a gap. It has crept into jazz, hip hop, "academic" music, electronics, folklore. Even Los Van Van successfully incorporated it in its beginnings. It has permeated the artistic fabric so much since the middle of the last century that it is now a lingua franca world. 

From that point of view, Break everything. The history of rock in Latin America it shows only a segment of its future. Most recognized and seller? Probably. But, just as not everything that glitters is gold, neither is everything that sells perfect. Perhaps the main achievement of the series (in addition to those already mentioned) has been to encourage debate, show the need for parallel and alternative narratives that rescue and complement the real story from different perceptions. All looks count. Rock is not exclusive to its fans: even the vision of its detractors must be considered. Perhaps it was time for a boost, and the series served to light the fuse. Only from the rigorous praxis and the understanding of the role that rock has played in our lives, it will be possible to break everything (schemes, myths, misrepresentations) to put it together again.