Banda

Some gringos (I would never dare say who) think beach banda sounds like a flock of parrots and a flock of seagulls simultaneously colliding into each other and a hollow tree over a herd of flatulent elephants while flamingos are trampled underfoot. “BANDA!” (Banda satire / beach chaos protest ballad) You think the three things you don’t talk about… are sex… politics… and religion? You ain’t been in Mazatlán long enough… Try sayin’ somethin’ about banda music… Sittin’ by the pool, ice cold Pacifico in hand, Ocean breeze driftin’ soft and slow across the sand, Life was good… yeah, everything peacefully aligned— Till a blasting brass section hit me from behind. From below the Costa wall came the first attack, Like a fast freight train jumpin’ straight off the track, Trumpets blastin’, screamin’ like they lost all control— I spilled my beer… shaken by the blast below. Thought it’d pass… just a brian shattering song or two… But then three more bands… came crashin’ through… BANDA!—blow it loud, blow it wrong, Blow it like the night’s too short for song, From El Recodo to the beachside war, Blowin’ up eardrums, near and far. Sounds like Parrots screamin’, with seagulls collide, Elephants trumpeting ’ charging the broadside — If that’s tradition, Lord I try to understand… But man o’ man… that’s one hell of a - BAND??? Roberto says, “It’s history, my gringo man— Sinaloa roots… you really oughta understand,” And I respect the past, I really do— honestly true Hank Williams never made me feel like these guys do. Back in the day banda had a little grace, It’s now a sonic arms race up close in your face, From discos full of furious narco dreams… To beach-side cacophony chaos, in matching jeans. Right when beachside romance starts settlin’ in, Candlelight, soft talk, maybe affection can begin BOOM—here they come, uninvited loud and proud, Turnin’ romantic whispers into screamn’ out loud. Tubas blastin’ like mountain thunder cracks, Snare drum hittin’ aiming for heart attacks, Singer howlin’ like a wounded dying goat— Intimacy dissolves… we should have gone to the boat. BANDA!—no escape, no plan, Volume knob stuck at “kill the man,” From chaise lounge dreams to karaoke cries, Every peaceful moment… painfully dies. Parrots screamin’, seagulls collide, Flatulent elephants join the ride— If that’s tradition, I still don’t disband… And don’t set up… right next to my chair, man. “Go back north, gringo!”— I’ve heard it said… “It’s their culture!”— accept it all snowflake lunkhead… But funny thing… when trash and dog crap hits the street— Suddenly that custom ain’t so traditionally sweet. Tradition’s a slippery word, my flexible friend… Depends on where you wanna cave and bend… But if tradition means blowin’ out my brain and ears— I will always relocate… my body and my beers. Trumpets slightly off-key Tuba heavy bounce Drum stumble / comedic rhythm BANDA!—play it proud, play it free, Just maybe… not so o so close to me, From Mazatlán nights to beachside stands, It shrieks and echos ‘cross the land. Parrots screamin’, seagulls collide, Life rolls on with the changing tide— I’ll raise a glass, try to understand… Just give me fifty feet… from that band. No, a hundred and fifty yards from that “so called” band!