* JuanMapu - Vida en Nueva York

Sometimes this is about fun stuff:

It is healthy to do good for yourself, so here some words from fresh readings, views and sounds...

¡Que viva la música!
Nada dura siempre. La salsa gusta porque pega como las relaciones tormentosas de porque te quiero te aporrio. Cerrar la novela de Caicedo fue como cuando el DJ apaga el equipo. Pero con la buena música retumbando en la cabeza por días --me acordé que los sonidos no dejan huellas y todo el ensayo de Borges sobre el tiempo y lo que somos--. Hasta que le metí el colmillo a algo que pude leer 10 años antes, pero bueno, nunca es tarde, además mejor ahora que ando tan vivo; después de probar los hongos; sabiendo que puedo bailar salsa llevando a las hembras; y haber sido perseguido por nombres yorubas.

A todos los expectantes del jueves: solo hay una promesa, House Music. El cambio, la esperanza, el progreso, son cosas de cuerpo y mente. Lo otro es TV. Discurso vacío. Querer al BAM de presidente es tan obvio y normal.

En cambio diferente, lo que se dice diferente es Karizma. Te lo había dicho amiga costurera, "a mí sí me gustan las cosas raras", y este hombre es una extraña criatura del Sur.

Es físico. Va de un lado para el otro en ese booth, le pega a los aparatos, los acaricia, les saca crazy, craaazy sounds. Y lo que envía desde allá se recibe en el dance floor. Porque su beat es uplifting, suena duro y es soulful. Y como bien lo anotaste costurera, ¡qué bacano que pocos lo conocemos! Teniamos espacio para hacer nuestra cosa en el dance floor. La terapia física. Agarrando los pasos de los dancers y haciendo los propios. Oh yeah. Karizma está en el top 5 de una buena fiesta. Te lo digo BAM, ve por experiencias fantásticas. Deja tu firma. Haz un buen trabajo siempre. Anda preparado. Evita que sus cosas comunes obstruyan tu magia.

I am back in NYC happily eating a gourmet meal and dealing with the cold. The good thing here is that unlike Bogotá indoor places are warmer than outdoor ones --being that a perfect excuse to stay out. Something reasonable I think. Like Barack Obama said about inhaling weed, "That was the point right." So I most of the time I was out feeling the most familiar place of my life. Read that again: I said feeling. I felt like the angels from The Sky Over Berlin, but the love everyone showed to me made me feel like a lovely ghost. "It is kind of unreal," I heard from many of my pals. It was bright every time I saw and hug one of them, including people I met in NYC like when I walked along with Le and Ka in La Candelaria and we have this nameless feeling.

It felt unreal because our love is stronger than ever. It is incredible how difficult is to understand at some point what happiness is about it but when you realize that each hug and the laughs are happening for real there is nothing else than enjoy, go for another hug and look deeply into each other eyes so you keep those beautiful images in your heart forever. That way you know you have been there, living inside happiness.

Jürgen says it is all about sensitivity and imagination, things I have learned in NYC, making my return magical. I am back in the city where people love to wear rubber in their feet and try to be polite in the middle of crazyness. I am looking forward for some house music.

Let's begin with the compromise to start writing events' reviews right after they happen. With that being said, go to your most recent memory of a snow storm. That feeling of staying at home watching movies, reading or cooking, may be a drink or two. Scotch preferably or what about a more brainwashed image a la John Legend drinking Baileys. Not the choices when Kenny Dope is playing. Not at all when he has a video invitation in his MySpace.

So go to your most recent memory of a snow storm and feel defiant. Like the Cuban revolution --gotta say something for the 50 anniversary-- or Motown records --another 50 anniversary to mention. If Kenny Dope is playing and you know what is he about just go. Like Viejo M. and Miss KV.

He is a lot of funk and soul with a lot of house and hip-hop and a lot of latin. Big time collector he is. For the party following the most recent snow storm he brought just 45s vinyls. Skills? Yes, of course he has skills. He knows how to cut those tracks, something that might sound rough but the grooving never stops.

When there is a snow storm and Kenny Dope is not playing, me and my friends talk about him, "The Prince of House."

Now that change is just a few hours away, let's talk about tradition, a three year one.

In 2006 Hannah, Solo Muzika and I went to Little Louie Vega's Martin Luther King Day party at Club Love. Probably my best house music party ever. It fulfilled the expectations of having the King of House playing in one of the greatest sound systems in New York City. He played deep soulful underground house for a crowd impossible to bullshit, mostly black and Latinos in their mid 30s or 40s, the kind that use to hang out at the Paradise Garage back in the days. It was a very cold night and we left Love around 5:30 in the morning completely drunk.

Luther Vandross' "Never too much" is one of favorites soul tunes ever. It is catchy and the lyrics are a love celebration with amazing lines like "Woke up today, looked at your picture just to get me started/I called you up, but you weren't there and I was broken hearted/Hung up the phone, can't be too late, the boss is so demandin'/Opened the door up and to my surprise there you were standin'." It definitely deserves to be included in my DJ sets, at least for the 6 a.m. one.

I had never seen its video until today. It has street shots showing people hooked into walkmans and boomboxes. It is interesting that besides the huge technological differences between walkman and ipods the image stills the same: someone walking around with headphones.

As for boomboxes, When did they stop being that popular? Did they become annoying? Were they inciting too much social life? Check it out:

So we said good-bye to Michael Jackson and it was a massive spectacle.

My roomy F. F. anticipated the whole thing and recalled the situationist concept, meaning he didn't have any intention to watch the memorial service. He just got home and turned on the TV but spent most of the time on the phone. (He did bitch though, and so did I, about the performance of the kid from "Britain Got Talent" show.)

Friends and acquaintances facebooked and twitted their TV or Harlem Street experiences. Cata V. smell something wrong when Magic Johnson mentioned MJ's affair with Kentucky Fried Chicken and her status changed to "kfc should pay for the advertisment ???? "

DJ Velvet, someone who plays MJ in most of her gigs, didn't give a shit about the memorial. She has been living in a world without Michael Jackson for more than a week already.

Like most of his fans, I reviewed Michael Jackson musical legacy shortly after the news of his death. Of course I believe Off The Wall is the best album ever produced. But in the myriad of video posts from people, DJ/Producer Solo Muzika put the one of "Show You The Way To Go," a lovely sexy jam, which led me to buy a compilation of The Jacksons.

As a DJ that mostly plays disco music, I found The Jacksons appropriate for my sets. It is romantic, sexy and very danceable era of MJ. The mellow guitar and the vocals were made for the dance floor. It also has the sense of unity and brotherhood that made of House Music a spiritual thing.

It is true Michael Jackson was a wonderful child that reminds us the sense of unity and growing as a family, like the teachings of Elegba, an Orisha often represented by children. The NYTimes got something in a report about the fading of black ambivalence after his death.

Thus, the messages about MJ's love for humanity weren't vain. Something I liked from the memorial was that it went back to the beginning, with the Jacksons and a wonderful child on stage.

Since last week, I scheduled myself for the Believer Magazine, McSweeney's writers panel from the Word for Word Author series at Bryant Park. I needed to hear other writers writing and thoughts, which is a feeling that is becoming as usual as going to listen and dance other DJs.

The night before to the panel, I decided to ride my bike there and basically have my longest ride of the summer: All the way to Bryant Park, then to Tribeca to pick up my new records (I finally got The Revenge remix of Marvin Gaye's "Heavy Love Affair"!) and then come back to Washington Heights, my home sweet hood. I was very on time for the panel and lucky enough to find a good seat, next to a red hair girl I had seen before. After the panel I got a copy of the Believer's music issue, so I put more weight than the expected on the come back ride. My shoulders felt it and by 110th Street I was ready to walk and have a break with Rossy.

Going to the panel turned out to be a good thing to do. (At the end of the day that's why I am New York City). The substitute moderator Amanda Stern had a sharp sense of humor and writers Joe Hagan, Jessica Anthony, James Hannaham, Arthur Phillips and Brandon Stosuy told good life stories and gave a broad inside of the publishing world.

What I wasn't expecting was them talking about music and writing. Four of them happened to have written about music and although Anthony did not write on music she said her novel The Convalescent was for Queen. As a writer that happens to be a DJ, former editor of a music site and with a writing project that involves a lot of music (house) in mind, the panel came in the nick of time. Here some random notes I took:

"Writing about music is about the feelings people have with."
"You can finish writing about the sound of a city when you write about music."
"You don't need technical expertise."
"Writing is creating sounds, the sounds inside your head."

Yesterday was a kind of hectic day so after I finished with my daily tasks around 4:00 p.m. I decided to go for a dance, listen to some music, have a taste of a summer night out in New York City. All by myself as I usually do. "It's been a while," I thought, "Probably months." I couldn't call the last time I went out alone.

"What kind of house head are you motherfucker?"

**

One thing I like about house music places in NYC is they stay loyal to the underground ambient. Few clubs have signs in this city. One recognizes them by a line outside or the velvet ropes managed by big guys known as bouncers. Somehow these clubs are always located in non-well-illuminated streets. Santos House Party is located in Chinatown, by Lafayette Street.

I went to see DJ Spinna but he wasn't there. It was disappointing because it was part of the deal of going out but it didn't change the main meaning of being out there. It was great to be in a dance floor again, in front of a loud sound system and dancers throwing powder on the floor. And it was like my lucky night, I got in there for free and drinks were back to their regular prices. (Beers were $4 and later I bought a double gin on the rocks for $10).

Photos by Karl Schonemann

Una noche en Nueva York comienza bien si el Viejo Mauro te da un ride en su taxi amarillo.

Con el Viejo Mauro Nueva York es más grande. Con él se habla de recientes compras de casas en Bayside, Queens, la comisión de taxis y limosinas, y el salario inicial en las agencias del gobierno. Si el Viejo Mauro te da un ride en su taxi amarillo hay que tomarlo como un presagio de lo que viene. Nueva York y más Nueva York.

El plan original es la fiesta de Mister Saturday Night en Brooklyn, con el legendario Larry Heard abordo. La cómplice elegida es Kristi, compañera de extensas jornadas de house music. Me advierte de dos paradas antes de nuestro destino final. Quiere saber un poco de los suyos.

Primera parada. Fiesta casera sin invitación. El hogar de un indiocanadiense y una egipcia que trabaja para Human Rights Watch. Es que Kristi se informa rápido. De hecho las familias del indio y la egipcia no estaban de acuerdo con esa unión. Ahora son un matrimonio próspero: dos pisos de un Brownstone, sólo para ellos. Extraña comodidad en Nueva York. Buenos anfitriones: una mesa llena de licor, quesos, aceitunas picantes y un dulce egipcio. Pasamos la medianoche, pero todavía no me entra el afán. Kristi dice que sus amigos nos darán el ride hasta Mister Saturday Night, pero después de ir a un cabaret ruso para otros reencuentros.

Segunda parada. El oceano atlántico. El restaurante Tatiana en Brighton Beach. Nueva York en ruso. Abundancia, vodka y una idea particular de la elegancia. Meseros vestidos de meseros. Banquete y rumba. Alfombras, lámparas de cristal, murales y dorado en las paredes. Kristi conoce bien a los rusos. Era pequeña cuando los soviéticos dominaron a su Estonia, pero puede asegurar que estos rusos han congelado el tiempo. Suele pasar con los inmigrantes. Lo que han freezado los rusos es el entretenimiento nocturno: Techno-pop aficionado. Cantantes encaramados en una tarima agitan la pista de baile. Uno de ellos, gordito y con lentes oscuros, se encumbra: "Si creen en lo maravilloso de este mundo, canten conmigo este coro". Lo dice en inglés, pero lo canta en ruso.

Ya son las dos de la mañana, y Larry Heard nos espera. Ahora si tengo afán. Kristi lo sabe. Plan de escape como si estuvieramos en la guerra fría. El ride ya no se dio. Nos salvamos del subway porque nos ofrecen un taxi. Ruso y barato.

Finalmente en Mister Saturday Night. Parece que Larry Heard apenas comienza a poner música. House Music de verdad. Esta noche vine a bailar. Cero alcohol, buen agua con gas. No todos bailan. Hablan y se emborrachan los sirvengüenzas, y uno tan feliz y tranquilo. Estoy contento de haber venido. Un manita con Kristi que también está a gusto. Un italiano que siguió a Kristi quiere saber quién es nuestro DJ preferido, cuál es nuestra canción preferida. Kristi pide silencio y baile. Que le obedezcan que también quiero bailar. También me gano mi italiano, que me sale mitad colombiano. Antes de esos datos me había preguntado por pastillas. A mí tan sobrio y sonriente.

Larry Heard se va. Salgamos antes de las seis para no esperar trenes estupidamente. ¿Hasta cuándo dormiré? El timing es perfecto, todos los trenes en un dos por tres. Los homeless despiertan temprano. Un adiós sin abrazo.