When I first came to the friendly shores of Mazatlán I made a concerted effort to develop an appreciation for Mexican music in all its glorious diversity. I bought armfuls of CDs and cassettes of all kinds of popular musical styles, a surprisingly large percentage of which feature accordion. I have to admit it was rough going at times, but I approached it as a learning experience. Then, at a party at Prof C’s, the host told me about a roc’n’rol band called El Tri, the original outlaw roqueros of Mexico City thirty years ago, gadflies back when the authorities were trying suppress rock as subversive. He put on one of their records, and I was hooked. It sounded like the Rolling Stones jamming with a really good harmonica player and Bob Dylan screeching his head off in Spanish over the top. Oh, baby, you know what I like! I went out and bought an armful of their CDs and records. Great stuff! Goes well with beer! Too bad I didn’t really understand the words. This lyrical ignorance led to an embarrassing scene when, in my bachelor days, I took my high class amiga to a restaurant/bar which had some El Tri on the juke box. I punched half a dozen songs and no sooner did the tunes begin than she wrinkled up her aquiline nose and called Alex Lora, the singer/composer, a “grosero” (vulgar, obscene one). I assumed this meant “grocer,” gave her a puzzled look, and continued to tap my fingers along with the irresistible beat. It was a live CD, and Alex was shouting all kids of things to incite the crowd. Waiters and customers alike were sending us amused glances, while she cringed. We left without ordering. After a trip to the sheet music store, I can understand her mortification. I learned many words that are not

in the dictionary. There’s a lot earthy humor mixed in with diatribes about injustice and bad television. Here’s a sample from Casate o Muerete (Marry or Die). “If you want to know your defects, marry. If you want to hear of your good qualities, die”. 0ye Cantinero (Hey Bartender) tells the story of a guy trying to order a drink, only to find out he’s not in a bar, he’s in an insane asylum (ever have that feeling?). El Canal (the Channel) describes just how low people will go to get their faces on TV. By today’s degenerate standards, the lyrics seem almost wholesome, but I can understand that a decent Mexican senorita might prefer something a little less raunchy. The reader can imagine my surprise and delight when, a couple of years ago, El Tri came to Mazatlán. Yes! The show was sponsored by a cultural branch of the Mexican government (how times have changed). 0utdoors, on the beach, under a full moon, at the height of spring fever. I was afraid it would be a stampede, but it turned out to be one of the most pleasant, smoothly run concerts I’ve ever attended. I should have brought the wife and kids and made a picnic of it. And boy did Alex and the crew deliver a world class performance! The crowd was joyously chanting profanities as they took the stage, and things just got better from there on. I was hoarse for days. Admittedly, not everyone shares my musical tastes, and to the many who do not care for bluesy rock, allow me to convey my respectful sympathies. For those who do, check out El Tri (rhymes with ski). And, Alex, next time you’re in town, drop me a line at egbrady@hotmail.com and let me buy you a beer or two. It’s the least I can do for my number one Spanish teacher.