Dismayed by the inaccuracies and misinformation in Harp magazine's Rock en Español, Latin Alternative: Border Radio article (Dec 2007) we made our displeasure known to the editorial board of the otherwise fine publication. It went something like this:
"Let’s put aside the various proofreading gaffes—is it Austin Radio or Austin TV?; is Pacha Massive from the Bronx or Brooklyn?—and just absorb this gem: 'Santana being called rock en Español is ‘grotesque,’ because even though Santana is from Tijuana , his music is absolutely marked by his American identity.' I’ll try to remember that next time I listen to 'Jingo,' 'Evil Ways ,' 'No One To Depend On' or 'Para Los Rumberos.' Sheesh.
Now, if [writer/author] Ernesto Lechner had stated how the RnE tag was inappropriate because Carlos’ music is much more widespread and complex, fine. But, otherwise… (Also, Maná is such an easy target. Why not take on, say, Gustavo Cerati? Yeah, I didn’t think so.) If his book is littered with that kind of nonsense I’m glad I never bought it.
Oh, and while we’re on the subject: I’d rather listen to a talented, straight-up rock band like Mexico’s Jumbo than one of the myriad of clueless bandwagon-jumping acts who pledge allegiance to the “Quiero mis raices, ya!” (“I want my roots, now!”) school of making music—as Desorden Publico frontman Horacio Blanco once derisively referred to it—ignorantly plowing ahead like 4th rate Los Lobos tribute bands. Know it before you play it, kids."
Their response?
They owned up to the proofreading/factchecking screwups but chose to take a swipe at us. And a cheap one, at that:
"Meanwhile, enjoy your copy of Ultimate Santana, dude. You know, the one with all those duets with Latin rock artists Rob Thomas, Chad Kroeger and Michelle Branch."
So, let's get this straight: the power, majesty, and more importantly, groundbreaking nature of, say, the first three Santana albums is now irrelevant because of some incredibly lame, ill-concieved, latter-day duets? (We'll own up to the Michelle Branch one being a guilty pleasure of ours.) C'mon guys, you're better than that. Next time you feel like lowering yourselves to this level, count to ten and let the desire to argue like a 6 year-old pass.
