Bring Back the Ephemeral

If you don’t recognize the name, Brian Eno was one of the original members of Roxy Music. They were pioneers in what I call Art School Rock. Eno drifted away from Roxy Music after a couple of records, and set up shop as a deep thinker about shallow music. He championed a style called Ambient Music. In some ways, it’s not even music. It’s just roughly organized sounds. It mostly doesn’t have definable rhythm, melody, chordal progressions, and all the things that normal people associate with listenable music. There’s the rub. There’s lots of organized noise in our world, and it can’t all be called music. To give one example, Eno composed this:

Because Windows 95 use was so widespread, Eno might have been the most listened-to composer in the world at the time. That sort of proves his point, that background sounds matter, and should be selected with as much care as the Top 40.

The quote up top is interesting to me, and trenchant:

Once music ceases to be ephemeral – always disappearing – and becomes instead material… it leaves the condition of traditional music and enters the condition of painting. It becomes a painting, existing as material in space, not immaterial in time.

I’ve made this point myself, in my hamfisted way. Eno is talking about all recorded music, I think. The act of recording it makes it A Thing, and a different kind of thing than it was when it was being performed live. The idea for Ambient  Music is older than recorded music, though. Erik Satie called his compositions Furniture Music. He composed music that was intended to just fade into the background, or as he said, become part of the furniture. That was the style, but it still had to be performed live.

Beats the hell out of hearing Bad Company records playing on the muzak speakers in the Walmart.

A lot of musicians besides Eno have given the topic a lot of thought. I’ve heard Donald Fagen, who is one of the most precise (anal, really) composers of pop/jazz/rock material I can think of, express his interest in music that isn’t really music. Jingles, muzak, the bumpers played between scenes on TV shows, theme songs, and that sort of thing.

I think that recorded music has killed music performed live. The ephemeral nature of music is gone, and no one hears very much music that isn’t coming out of a machine. It’s changed what music is for most people, in the way Eno was talking about. I go back to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. It’s the first record album I can think of that couldn’t practically be reproduced live by the pop musicians who made it, or anyone else for that matter. There are tape loops playing backwards on it, for instance. George Martin and the Beatles were deliberately making an artifact, not a recording of a performance.

That sent the ephemeral quality of pop right out the window. The production values of music trumped every other value of their appeal. They were no longer written to be performed, they were recorded to be played on machines. And as you know, the machines to play the music and other noises so saturate our lives that there’s no escaping them. The gas pumps play music. People wear noise cancelling headphones to drown out the constant ambient sounds and inject their own playlist into their heads instead. We’re not exposed to it; we’re marinated in it. Now that Ai produces the stuff by the metric carload, they’ll be no end to it.

Eno doesn’t mind that music ceases to be ephemeral. He’s arguing that it needs to be approached differently, because it has become different. I do mind, though. I have always liked music made fresh daily, as it were. I used to play live music for mostly live audiences. I watched the entire industry of performing music in bands in front of an audience die on the vine, right as I was doing it. Covid was just the stake through the heart and the garlic. It was already dead. Now there’s no place to play, and precious few people who can be entertaining live, anyway. I discount arena concerts out of hand. It’s not really a live performance. The equipment to fill an arena is so complicated that the noises that reach the audience have only a passing resemblance to the sounds the musicians are making. Milli Vanilli were honest compared to the audio spackle and pitch correction arena bands rely on.

Even if the bands could play something real, the audience doesn’t treat it like an ephemeral, enjoyable experience anyway. Look at any notable arena performance, and every single person in the audience is doing the Steve Jobs Hitler salute with their phone. It’s not real to them until it’s recorded.

We went out on Sunday night. The local corner cantina, the Dzalbay, had a jazz jam session. In the US, they have open mike nights of the same stripe, and they’re generally horrible, one step past karaoke. The people who participate simply want an audience that can’t leave, because they’re also waiting to inflict their favorite song on anyone deaf enough to stay and listen to it. The Dzalbay ain’t like that.

Man, everybody who played was a stone cold monster. It was a cutting contest  without a hint of cutting. Not a lot of showing off, just an attempt to make music together, fresh, ephemeral, right in front of you. Music played live with no gimmicks is like watching a tightrope walker. You’re tuned in, maybe rooting them on, perhaps a little anxious, wondering if they might fail.It lends a sense of excitement that’s missing when guys are just spinning records.

Like everywhere we go in town, it’s free to get in, and the beer is cheap. I hated the guitar player a little, because at first I thought he was looking at a chord chart on the floor while he was blazing away, but my wife pointed out that he was just looking at the floor, because the supercharged version of Autumn Leaves, and some Ornette Coleman weirdness didn’t require him to look at his hands or anything. Then the fellow sitting next to me told me that the guitar player was also a luthier, and had made his own guitar, and I really had to hate him then, out of mad respect.

L. P. Hartley penned the semi-famous line: The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. I think he got it wrong. I’ll fix it right now: The foreign country is the past; they do things the way I remember them.

What Ten Thousand Commandments and Flock Cameras Can’t Accomplish

We’re renting a house in Mérida, Mexico. The clothes dryer was busted. I pretty much knew what was wrong with it, and probably could have fixed it, but I’m not allowed to fix anything. I’m supposed to call the property manager and tell her what’s wrong, and she arranges to have it fixed. They don’t trust occupants to fix stuff.  It’s a hard and fast policy, in writing on the lease.

I can’t say I blame them. These days, the average person is capable of breaking things further, but not fixing much. In my case, it leads to entertaining conversations when the property manager, who is a little girl (I’m getting old), asks me amusing things like, “The clothes won’t dry? Are you sure it’s plugged in?” I once made guidance systems for NASA and the Department of Defense, and I learned to check if the accelerometer test bed was plugged in, so I felt like I had that type of eventuality covered, but I didn’t mention it. And BTW, it’s a gas dryer. She sent someone out to fix it.

The repairman came. He spoke no English. That’s common around here. The Yucatan is barely Mexico, never mind an ersatz suburb of the US. Many people still speak Mayan here along with their Spanish. Learning English is way down the list of things to do. My Spanish is rudimentary, but I could manage a greeting and to tell him where the dryer is located (Adelante, arriba!). He got to work.

There’s a giant rubber band on the back of the drum that had snapped. The fellow had to take the whole thing apart from the front, which was a PIA, but it was a simple fix once he could get at the problem. He was a thoroughgoing type of guy, and cleaned the whole apparatus, and removed the exhaust vent pipe, which is one of those accordion metal things, and cleaned out all the lint in that, too. He was working in our cuarto de lavado, a hot, cramped little room for laundry, cleaning supplies, a few termites, and the water heater. I gave him a Coke while he worked, which he treated like a winning lottery ticket. It’s 95 degrees every day, so I could see his point. When he was done, he left in a cloud of English encomium.

The next day, I noticed two US quarters on the shelf next to the dryer. They weren’t ours, we deal strictly in pesos here. They’re the residue of tourists past, people who forgot them in their pants pockets. The fellow who fixed the dryer found them inside the washing machine’s drain, or maybe the dryer’s exhaust while he was cleaning it, but would not take them, because they were not his.

Think of that. Fifty cents is real money to people around here, almost ten pesos. I can buy a loaf of bread from the panaderia next door for eight pesos, for example. Fifty cents is not like a penny in the street in Boston, one that no one can be bothered to pick up. But even though no one was looking, and the money was actually a motherless child, and no one would be the wiser, he would not take it.

I’d aver that I’m as honest as the next guy, but nowadays, that’s faint praise indeed. I’ve seen the “next guy” who’s abroad in the country of my birth, and he’s basically feral. The fear of being caught is the only stumbling block for about half the population of the United States. The other half isn’t even afraid of being caught anymore. The idea of not taking something because it doesn’t belong to you is totally squaresville, man. Flock cameras have mostly replaced the role of the conscience, and bodyworn police cameras cover the rest of the waterfront. For the vast majority of people in the US, there is no internal check on their behaviors, and precious few external checks, at least if you watch YouTube arrest videos right through to the end to see all the charges dropped.

He would not take them because they were not his. It’s that simple. I doubt he even hesitated over it. I meet a lot of people like him here. They are what they is, as we used to say in the vernacular. Their behavior is not a veneer. It goes all the way through.

As Chesterton said, “If men will not be governed by the Ten Commandments, they shall be governed by the ten thousand commandments.” The United States is now in the thrall of the ten thousand commandments, courtesy of the opinions of millions of Karens, with more on the way. But ten times ten thousand commandments will never be enough to make two quarters appear on the shelf in your laundry. Ten might.

Something Tells Me It’s All Happening at the Centenario Zoo

The Parque Zoológico del Centenario, that is.

The zoo is only a ten minute walk from our house, so we wander through from time to time to commiserate with the animals about the ambient temperature. The “centenario” sobriquet is because the park was founded in 1910, the 100-year anniversary of the Mexican Revolution. For about 50 years, the park was just a pleasant park, full of plants and benches.  Then in 1962, they made it into a zoo. It’s not huge, but its walls keep around 600 animals from wandering into traffic.

The park still retains enough of its original layout as a botanical garden to make it a pleasant place just to meander in shady allees, not simply as a collection of animals to gawk at.

It’s the second most popular tourist destination in the area, after the nearby Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza. I guess “tourist destination” is an inapt description for the zoo. The park is full of young families from the area. If anyone else in the park was speaking anything other than Spanish, we didn’t hear them.

Maybe a million people visit the park every year. That’s a lot, in a city with about a million people. They don’t have an exact count, because, get this, there’s no entrance fee. No one frisks you at the gate, either, to see if you’re packing weapons or your own lunch. You can buy booth food inside if you want, but many families brown bag it. It’s a decidedly peaceful and pleasant place.

There’s an interesting tradeoff that comes with a zoo built in the sixties. Unlike modern zoos, like the one in San Diego for instance, not a lot of the exhibits are vast naturalized pens with moats to keep the animals in instead of wire fences to keep you out. So here in Merida you’re mostly looking through a grid to see the critters, but on the flip side, you can walk right up to them. About eighty percent of the time in San Diego, the animals were slouching somewhere you couldn’t see them. They slouch here, of course, because it’s 95 degrees every day it’s not 100, but they slouch up close where you can get a look at them. And occasionally, a whiff. Zebras are horses with B.O., for instance.

The animals seem pretty contented. The mountain goats, for instance, were provided with a pile of rocks, which they stand on, because what else would they do? They wouldn’t do tricks or long division or anything if they had a more elaborate pen:

There’s always one animal at any zoo, anywhere, who’s always on duty. The lions lie on their backs and snooze, the hippos wallow, the monkeys lounge, but you can always find one of these beasts keeping constant watch:

Anybody with a house cat and a sliding glass door will recognize this behavior. That’s a melanistic, or melanic jaguar, depending on who you ask. That means it has the same spots as any other jaguar, but they’re hidden in its all black fur. I would have checked it for the sublimated spots, and I’d tell you if this jaguar was a male or a female, but I respect its privacy. Also, I got the impression that if I put as much as my pinkie through the chain link, it would suck me through the hole and eat me.

El tigre was much more mellow. He didn’t look like he wanted to eat you or anything. I assume he’d already eaten the guy that mucks out his cage, and was full. Unlike lions, who are clowns, tigers always seem pretty serious.

But all these animals are from the Holocene, I guess, and so am I, so I’m not that scared of them. It’s when the Cretaceous shows up that I get worried. Meet the final boss of the Centenario zoo:

So there’s no cover charge at the Centenario zoo, but the bouncers sure look ferocious. Behave yourself, and if you’re smart, avoid the bridge.

How To Celebrate Grito de Dolores Without Really Trying

If you know only a little Spanish, you might be excused for thinking Grito de Dolores means that raw oyster you ate had some sand in it, and you have a stomachache. After remedial classes, you might mistake it for I yelled until I had a headache. But after you live in Mexico for a while, you’ll discover that Dolores is a town, full name: Pueblo Nuevo de los Dolores. And a grito is a shout.

The Shout of Dolores is a civic reenactment of a call to revolutionary arms, spoken by a Catholic priest named Miguel Hidalgo, or Don Miguel Gregorio Antonio Ignacio Hidalgo y Costilla Gallaga Mandarte y Villaseñor if you’re not into the whole brevity thing. He opened his window and yelled something to an assembled throng outside. Don Miguel was the equivalent of the Indy Pace Car. He got the Mexican War of Independence rolling by ringing his church bell and yelling at everyone to hate the French.

Why hate the French, you ask? well, it was 1810, and Napoleon had installed his brother as the King of Spain. That made him the king of New Spain, too. Mexicans had only recently gotten used to bonafide Spaniards ordering them around and calling the place New Spain, and decided they’d rather fight than switch to the bonaparte varietal. So Mexicans chose sides between supporting the repulsive abdicated heir to the throne Ferdinand VII, and the toadies who supported Joe Bonaparte. Game on, said Don Miguel.

The politics of it are pretty murky, actually, and will spur you on to a grito de dolor de la cabeza of your own if you dive into it too far. It caused the Peninsular War in Iberia, too, so prepare to spend the whole day in the library figuring it out. Bring Excedrin.

In any event, September 16th is Independence Day in Mexico, similar to July 4th in the US. Of course Mexico had either one, two-hundred year revolution, or innumerable small ones strung out over the calendars, but you have to pick a day and stick to it, and Mexico picked the day of the Grito de Dolores for their founding fiesta.

Except they didn’t. The 16th is officially the holiday, but the whole country celebrates it at 11:00 PM on the 15th. The holiday itself is like New Year’s Day, just a day off to nurse your hangover. The president, assorted governors, and anyone else with a plaque on a government desk wants to read the Grito de Dolores at 11:00 at night on the eve of the holiday, and then shout, “Viva Mexico” three times while the crowd cheers, and throw a party.

Here’s the current president of Mexico giving it a whirl. She appears to be running for class president on the Girls, Girls, Girls! platform every day of her term:

There is a problem with reciting the Grito de Dolores that you might have noticed in the video. Mexicans, being a boisterous and happy-go-lucky people, didn’t write down, or even remember what Don Miguel actually said. Everyone agreed that it was a stirring call to arms, or a soul-searching appeal to patriotism, or an amazing rant, or maybe a grocery shopping list. Many scholars have tried to re-create the speech, which ends up sounding like what that particular scholar would have said. The politicians have given up on the speech part of the enterprise, and just read the names of a hearty handful of fallen heroes of the revolution, followed by yelling Viva Mexico! three times. It’s like saying Beetlejuice! three times, but Mexico appears instead of Michael Keaton.

Mexicans are pretty happy being Mexican, so there aren’t many grumblers holding People Against For placards at any given Grito. And they like a fiesta in any case, so they set up bleachers and food stalls and hire bands to blast away between the fireworks displays. In Merida, they had the awesome La Adictiva:

We could have walked down to the zocalo (the main square) to yell Viva Mexico! along with everyone else. It’s a stirring spectacle, and a charming slogan for a country. But I already had a dolor de cabeza, and while I could have withstood the fireworks, the bells, and shouting, I don’t think my head would have survived a band with an entire valved trombone section.

I used to play the trombone, and I can assure you that’s not music, that’s plumbing.

I Got Killed. But I Got Better

Well, the latest crime statistics for Mexico are in. They incite a certain “compare and contrast” urge in me. You see, I came to Yucatan, which is a state in the southern jungles of Mexico, from Maine, which is the unheated basement of Canada. It’s yin and yang. Scylla and Charybdis. I dunno, maybe Abbot and Costello.

Yucatan, the state, is one of three states in the Yucatan Peninsula, if memory serves. To the west is Campeche, and to the east is Quintana Roo. Quintana Roo is where Cancun lurks and cruise ships disgorge their frightful freight of potential sunburn victims.

I’m going to compare crime statistics between Maine and Yucatan for two reasons. One, I’ve recently lived in both places. Two, my wife and I were assured by everyone in Maine that if we moved to Mexico, we would be murdered, or kidnapped, or kidnapped and murdered in no particular order, likely immediately upon landing. I think they set up a betting pool. They wagered on whether we’d get it in the neck at the baggage claim, or maybe be spirited away to a torture dungeon directly from the immigration desk. Perhaps held for ransom by the cab driver waiting at the curb, to me murdered at leisure. One enterprising brother-in-law took a big flutter on us being massacred on the plane itself by a rogue cartel stewardess. We don’t fly Spirit airlines, so he lost his shirt.

There are other reasons to compare the two. Maine is pretty big, but it’s pretty empty, too. Yucatan is slightly less than half as big as Maine, but it has 2.3 million people in it, while Maine has 1.3 or 1.4 million, depending on how many of its hardy souls tried to go ice-fishing one last time in May. So the two places are somewhat comparable.

The comparison even holds additional water, because in both places, the population is all in one place. We’re in Merida, the capital of Yucatan, where between 900,000 and 1.1 million people live, depending on how you define the city limits. Similarly, pretty much everyone in Maine lives in what we used to call Northern Massachusetts. It’s the strip of land that stretches along the coast from the New Hampshire border to Portland. Most people think Portland is the capital of Maine, but it’s just the biggest city. Augusta is the capital. We used to live there. The population of Augusta is 19,000, to give you some idea of how Maine operates. Most of Maine outside of a few cities is nothing but trees, fleas, and disease.

So let’s begin with the crime statistics released today for Yucatan:

MÉRIDA, YUCATAN — Yucatán accumulated 2,346 alleged common law crimes between January and April 2026, keeping it among the safest states in Mexico, according to the latest report from the Executive Secretariat of the National Public Security System (SESNSP). (link)

By “common law crimes,” they’re not describing domestic donnybrooks in trailer parks by couples that can’t afford destination weddings, although that classification would work just fine in Maine. Down here, they are referring to every sort of crime that would be reported to the police, not just the kinds of crime that happens when your meth-smoking common-law wife objects to your preference for spending her SNAP check on fentanyl in your single-wide outside of Lewiston.

The only two states in Mexico rated (barely) safer than Yucatan are next door neighbor Campeche, and Tlaxcala, a tiny little state further up the eastern edge of  Mexico along the gulf, although it’s landlocked. I think they’re fibbing a bit about Tlaxcala. While it’s probably true there’s not much crime there, it might only be because Tlaxcalasians commit all their crimes in the US. Federal Hill in Providence used to be pretty peaceful too, for much the same reason. Many gangsters don’t shit where they eat. Merida ain’t like that. It’s truly peaceful here.

So I asked Chad (chat GPT) to compare crime rates in Merida to Maine. This is especially interesting, because Maine is one of the safest states in the US. Our relatives don’t think they’re courting death by living in Maine, unless they head out to the mailbox in January without a rope tied to their waist and the house. They think we’re crazy, though.

Maine is generally considered one of the safest U.S. states. However, Maine’s reported crime rates are much higher than Yucatán’s reported figures.

Recent FBI-based statistics typically show:

Violent crime: roughly 100–120 per 100,000 people annually
Property crime: roughly 1,000–1,200 per 100,000 people annually
Total index crime: around 1,100–1,300+ per 100,000 people annually

So if we compare reported crime rates directly:

Jurisdiction Approx. annual crime rate
Yucatán (annualized from Jan–Apr data) ~294 per 100,000
Maine ~1,100–1,300 per 100,000

On paper, Yucatán’s reported crime rate appears roughly 4–5 times lower than Maine’s.

Chad cautioned me that there might be a problem with the statistics, because:

Official crime rates don’t necessarily capture:

    • Open drug use
    • Chronic public disorder
    • Reckless driving and traffic violations
    • Shoplifting that businesses no longer bother reporting
    • Trespassing, vagrancy, and nuisance offenses
    • Repeat low-level offending that communities simply tolerate.

A resident’s lived experience can therefore diverge significantly from the official numbers.

I got the impression that Chad was warning me about Mexico, but I can assure you that open drug use, public disorder, reckless driving and traffic violations, shoplifting that businesses no longer bother reporting, trespassing, vagrancy, and nuisance offenses are unheard of in Merida, but they might as well be printed at the bottom of the ENTERING AUGUSTA signs at the edge of town.

So we’re between four and five times safer here in Merida than we were back in Maine, which is about tied for the safest place in the United States. I’d like to assure our relatives that we’re trying as hard as we can to get ourselves killed, or kidnapped, or kidnapped and killed in any order, but it’s going to take a while to settle their bets. Sorry.

Tag: the other Mexico

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