Little is illuminated. Sometimes nothing. Each bird looks at the other, heads like poppies, bones thin as air.
Peruvian cumbia picked up the guitars and held on. Here’s one without any.
Los Mirlos’ songs are disturbing and beautiful the the way Van Gogh’s canvases are: thickly alive, altered perspectives parading as normal, windows onto an unreconciled time & space. You can hear weird electricity under the composition’s skin even when they switch off the Moog.
They capture something. It resonates. The music of Los Mirlos (the blackbirds) passes into public memory. Covers and versions flourish. A song written by someone becomes, effectively, a song written by everyone. This sonidero crew straightens them out, three decades later in New York or LA: