From Your Sonic Beauty Case to Metrosensual to Bad Timing, masterful Swiss duo Audio Lotion makes me want to live in their albums.
Last week, a 23-year-old gunman walked into a middle school in Rio de Janeiro and shot 12 students dead before killing himself. As a country where, despite a brutal history that included chattel slavery and the decimation of the indigenous population, high-profile violence has been relegated mostly to drug- and crime-related situations, Brazil is stunned that a US-style school shooting could occur here. I won’t say that I was stunned, but I never would have predicted it, at least not in Rio. I had a difficult time believing that the type of social alienation necessary to incite this type of violent outburst could occur in a tropical place.
When I lived in Colombia, a movie debuted called Satanás, which dealt with a real-life shooting spree that occurred in Bogotá in the 80s. Situated high in the Andes, with a year-round high temperature typically in the 60s and a population of eight million, Bogotá was the type of place where you could envision a rampage – people tended to be reserved, “cold” compared to the hot-blooded lowlanders from tierra caliente. People go about their own business and often don’t know their neighbors. It’s a place easy to get lost in, to be forgotten about, to go unnoticed until you snap. I told friends when the film premiered that a similar type of rampage would never happen in the cities of the Caribbean coast, where I’d lived the few years before. With much of life lived outdoors and with neighbors intensely interested in the lives of others, to the point of nosiness, there’s just too many damn people in your business: someone would have noticed, “that boy ain’t right” long before the boy picked up a gun. I felt like communities in hot climates or with minority populations (communities of color in the US, specifically) were too close-knit. In the black community, we tend to deal with pressure through religion or pathological self-medication/self-destruction, to varying degrees of success. Rarely does violence in these hot, teeming places manifest in such an explosive, semi-indiscriminate fashion, instead being released in countless, smaller, targeted acts. That’s why I would never have pegged Rio as the site of an execution-style school shooting, and certainly not as the site of the first one in Brazil. São Paulo, with its bustling, temperate indifference, certainly. But not Rio.
Seems, infelizmente, I was wrong.
Sometimes, I stumble upon photographs and other memorabilia that draws me in, reminding me of the transitory nature of culture and of travel itself. Often, what attracts us to a place isn’t the place by itself, but the place at a specific time. Timing is everything, after all. The 1970s were Venezuela’s time. With the country’s second major oil boom, money and people flowed into the capital city, Caracas, sometimes faster than the speed of sound. Air France, in fact, ran the Concorde once a week to Caracas from Paris. Wonder what kind of party favors they had floating around the cabin?
Here are a few shots of the city in the ’70s, when caraqueños rocked curly ‘fros and bell-bottoms, punching down the expressway (or stuck in traffic) in Mustangs and Camaros, Oscar d’León and Rubén Blades eight-tracks plugged into the stereo.
Now, this is music: