Listen.
Breathe, and listen.
¡WEPA!
A passion beat, the battery of a drum-roll and the blaring of a trumpet.
Loud, deep, in the valleys below, the holiest choir of music, people’s music,
Blasting from the open windows of a bouncing Boricuan car.
The rumble is a Beat,
That familiar rhythm of pulsating drums and screaming synths.
It is an ode to freedom and volume, bombastic sound and shaking car speakers.
The quick scratches of a vinyl and the loud tongues of roaring rap lyrics,
Speak like horns of Fire,
Engulfing-
With heart, they tell stories of home and of hustle,
Of people and of person,
Of loneliness and of loving.
With the roaring echoes of pride, and passionate power,
Their own anthems yell “TÚ ERES GUASA, GUASA!” or “CUÉNTALE!”
These,
Are Victory Chants,
Battle Hymns,
Tradition,
and,
Algo.
Though some ears, they turn.
And many will scream back in agitation,
They are simply fearful of the sound of freedom ringing.
Afraid of the power,
Afraid of the difference,
Afraid of the meaning,
Of an island born LOVE of vibration.
But, The Fearful, they’ve forgotten something.
Forgotten el sentido that these rhythms bring,
And, sadly, never realize,
That lives worth leading do often bother each other.
So Listen.
Stand! And LISTEN!
To what exactly these massive Hymnals mean to Me.
I was born in the land of grapevine and olive oil, the fragrance of nobility not an unfamiliar.
I was raised into a life of power, prestige, and beauty, but I chose the path of sack cloth for faith.
This humility frightened my parents, who had me married off, but in my own piety I prayed,
I prayed to prove my husband a person of civility, his body christened by my own request.
He was enlightened, and remained honorable, and in sheer adulation of our devotions,
I sang.
Our wedding ceremony was one of riches, clanging chalices and overflowing drink,
But, in the midst of festivity,
In the heart of sheer warmth and intimacy,
I heard it.
First it was the timbre of a voice, rich and clear,
Singing the sweet praise of a blue sky above and a brown earth below.
Then came the shrill ring of a symphony of string,
Carrying bold plucks and waves of awe-inspiring, lushous, vibration.
Soon after, cacophony! Rumbling drums and uproarious percussion,
Inspiring the bodies and souls of the reception to jump, leap, and gyrate.
By then, the temperature had risen, and it was plain to all that this adulation, this Worship,
Was something different.
It was shameless, liberated, violent, and free.
It held volume, sweaty passion and vocal significance.
It was sound, symphony, and praise fried into one.
Loud, filthy, and fun rhythms of lifeblood and self, it was, in essence,
Divine.
No more did holiness need to be confided to the realm of silence and servitude.
No more did shame and punishment need to accompany those who sang their praises aloud.
Since this moment, this Music, was far greater prayer than any twisted mystic could grant,
And, to me, this revelation meant something (or to you, my children, Algo).
I think of this something as I hear the love and glory that pours out of an open car window,
Sweet pounds and pulses of electronic warbles and a bass-kick beat filling the air with presence.
I think of this something as I see the lone guitarist string their solitude into a humid night’s sky,
Poems of loss and adoration leaving their lips in a downpour, their sincerity a sign of clarity.
I think of this something as I witness the foundation of a casa shake, quake, and crack,
The pounding of a thousand eager feet, the vocal unity of a hundred rising voices, just too much,
Too Holy,
For the mortal bindings of an Earth dangerously appreciative of silence.
Now,
Why is that?
I ask you each,
As a Martyr.
And nothing more.
-Jorge Biaggi, ’23