In Recoleta in Buenos Aires they do a flea market on Sunday. A guy brings RCA Victrolas that you can wind with a crank to play records. On an old 78 at the bottom of a dusty box that's survived innumerable crises quasi-intact is a record without any words on the label. There's a picture though, a doodle of a worried looking cartoon fat man with bug eyes. The A-side is ungrooved and would sound like nails scratching on the flaming chalkboards of full hell in the open-air market.
If you wind the crank and put on the B-side, though, you'll hear preserved the contents of my music brain, which I've transcoded there for safe-keeping as I build competency in realms far more bureaucratic and parental.
Under the music is a gringo trying to sing in Spanish because he thinks the language will make his lyrics more poetic. The engineer on duty the day of the recording had the good sense to fade the lyrics in the mix to the point of mumble, so all you hear is the occasional mispronounced accent or stray letter n with a tilde, or o. Porque no tengo la sensibilidad a cantar con palabras que yo entiendo, porque la luna es libre y cabelleros son su estudiantes idiotas.
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