28 August 2009. Myrtle sky, white streamers on pale blue, more heat in store...
The Imperial Valley, 115 in the shade, miles and miles of cantelope, honeydue, no one's home. Aunt Sis and the bar in El Centro--a long, dark affair, even at noon, smell of alchohol from the night before, and the night before that. The growers--close up to a cold beer, a Jim Beam, a whiskey sour. Desert drinks--gripped--to break the spell...
Alfredo Zitarrosa--an Uruguayan prince. His commanding articulation, no matter the song. Dark suit, bien gomado, muy formal. He delivers a copla, hands emphasizing each shift in meaning--a definiteness even when the mood remains lighthearted--as if the price of sorrow were a smile...
"...y no pasen los franceses..."
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(gomina--the old-style hair wax used by men in Argentina and Uruguay. "...y pasen los franceses...," a fragment of a line from the song...)
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