I was in San Antonio last Saturday night. A gentle zephyr was stirring the air, and at the Main Plaza, a “Salsa” band was playing. Paused. Looked. Listened.
Latin rhythms, with a bald, bearded white guy blowing on an alto sax, singing harmony on occasion. A black guy on one of the drum sets, also harmonizing. Rest of the band looked essentially Latin. Certainly sounded that way. Assuming that they were “Latin,” though, that’s me, making a judgement call. Profiling, based on looks. Still, looked “Latino,” or “Hispanic,” or, at the risk of alienating a few, “Mexican.” I’ve been assured that the Mexican term is preferred to the Latin term.
Nodded to the music, mused at the obvious ethnic diversity of the band, realized I needed to dig out some of my “Latin Rhythms,” and reload an iPod.
Walked west another few blocks, intent on some food at the legendary “Mi Tierra” restaurant. Was greeted by hordes. Thronging masses. Not many obvious “guero” types there.
Sure do enjoy some conjunto-flavored music, even if I don’t get it. Lead instrument? Squeeze-box. Guitar guys, A) don’t all have long hair, and B) aren’t treated as a gods.
Never made it to dinner, and left before the sun set. Limits. Thoroughly enjoyed myself. Pictures at eleven.
Austin and San Antonio, they really ought be neighbors, not enemies. Austin is like the younger kid, who’s all hip and shit. San Antonio is the wiser, way-more-whacked-out older sibling. Ask my younger sister about that.
Like I always say? “Ibam ibi, feci id.”