I saw inti illimani historico. it was such an insane experience seeing these actual living legends performing before my eyes with their wildly layered music…
Songs of my childhood bringing all sort of emotions out. they took me on the hot summer roads in iran in a peugeot 504, a cassette playing that i had only one thing written on it; “viva chile”. no artists names, no song names, just pure bliss. those songs gave me hope in those days somehow. later i found that there was inti on that cassette, there was Victor Jara, there was Quila. Victor Jara was the only one i knew and there were other cassettes of him. oh my poor sweet Victor with that heavenly voice. my dad told me about him. he told me the story of the stadium… his eyes would get sad and angry…
I found names of inti and quila much later. and figured that they lived on! and kept their flame on! but back then there was just dust in the air, smell of my dad in the car – he smelled of sweat and pride and confidence like the working class man that he was, despite… well everything-, his big hands tapping on the steering wheel and the breathing of flutes and the ring of guitar strings filling my ears. i was in the back seat, my legs kicked up against his seat -that was always pushed so far back- bopping my head and humming along with the legends. i was always humming…
But now, some 30 years later, that humming kid was in the same room with them giants. the concert was lovely and long. they poured their heart into it… their drummer was having the time of his life. jumping around and it was just an absolute delight watching him. and there was horacio durán, the 78 year old sweetheart, dancing gracefully on the stage with his feeble steps… and then it downed on me, like a hammer’s pang on the anvil, that he started doing this when he was 28! and the fact that they started his fight against fascism 50 years ago. or even more… now they are broken and battered… the fight is still on… and we are not winning…
In the end everyone stood up and sang “el pueblo unido” with their fists in the air… The floor rumbled under our feet… I felt such rush of warmth and solidarity… Not like in the streets of Tehran. We ran away together from the anti riot police on their mountain bikes. Running down streets like cavalry. His big hands around my wrist pulling me away. He smelled of fear! Fear of death. Of my death. He watched me die years later… Not in the streets of Tehran, and he decided not to say goodbye.
I miss his firm hands… when i listen to Inti.
I came out of the concert hall, shaken by seeing these revolutionaries -companions to my lonely childhood- live. but also i there is this sombre feeling lingering in my heart. Of seeing a painting of my own end. Old and broken, with a bunch of my old and broken comrades singing our songs in a faraway land. Fading away… Collectively wishing for a future we will never see…