Mariachi Static On The Radio

A voyage into the delightfully inexplicable

I swear that this story is true.

It might seem inconsequential, but it’s just so weird that I had to share. Sometimes coincidences happen at the perfect time, and it’s like the universe is saying, “Hey, chill out, I got your back.”

Then again, it might mean nothing, but it’s a lot more comforting to believe that larger forces are at play, even if their actions are generally incomprehensible.

I was sitting at a bar in Miraflores chasing beers with a friend of mine named Kyle. We were both teachers at a small school on the outskirts of the city. It was Friday, we were done for the week.

In those days, I used to wear my house keys on a string around my neck. It wasn’t infrequent to get robbed in Lima, and I figured that no matter what happened, I would be able to wake up, walk back home, and get in. That’s why I used a string instead of a chain. There was no reason for anyone to steal a dingy string.

As a general rule, the music in Lima isn’t bad. They don’t play a huge number of irritating, modern American hits. Personally, whenever Taylor Swift comes on, I rip the radio from the console and throw it out the window. Uber drivers hate me.

In Peru you get a mix of legendary Spanish singers that you’ve never heard of. Most have a lot more talent than the eye-candy singers we’re subjected to on American radio.

A track of Nat King Cole singing “Quizas” gets substantial air play. They didn’t announce it was him, but the voice gave him away, that and the accent. It’s a good track, go look it up.

Mixed in with all that you’re going to get a steady barrage of Air Supply, along with Land Down Under by Men at Work. The choices don’t make any sense, but I like them.

My biggest gripe is that you never hear any Warren Zevon.

You don’t hear much Zevon in the States either, to be honest, except on Halloween when presenters get sick of spinning Monster Mash and throw in Werewolves of London for a change. There was a brief moment when it seemed like Zevon was coming on all the time, but then it turned out to be the god awful Kid Rock remix.

That’s about when the console chucking started incidentally.

Zevon is a lot more than just Werewolves of London and Excitable Boy. Desperadoes Under the Eves begins like Zevon is just being a smart ass again, and then it pivots to sucker punch you on the way to defiantly evolving into something truly memorable. The French Inhaler captures a perfect kind of Hollywood misery, but Zevon’s best song might be Carmelita, a tune about waking up in Mexico with a heroin hangover.

I hear Mariachi static on my radio…

The opening line conveys so much information that it hurts. The reception is bad, the music is different, and you don’t know how you got to wherever you are.

I’m guessing Zevon might have been the type of guy to wear his keys around his neck on a string so he was sure if he woke up somewhere, stripped of all his belongings, he’d still be able to stumble home and open the door.

“You know,” I said, turning to Kyle, “what I’d really like to listen to right now is some Warren Zevon.”

Kyle’s eyes lit up. He’d been enjoying the Steve Earle album I’d lent him, Train a Comin’. There’s a certain desperation to that album. Earle recorded it after his own fight with heroin. It’s basically just Earle, his guitar, and the kind of double dose of misery that creates an incomparable harmony. Clapton hits the same notes on Layla, I’m talking the voice, not the guitar. Train a Comin’ is acoustic.

“I don’t think you’re likely to find a Warren Zevon album in Peru,” Kyle said back.

“Too bad.”

We ordered another round of beer. We were drinking Pilsen Callao. It’s a solid beer actually. The bartender came over to flash a smile at us. She was kind of a thing. When she wandered off I noticed some shelves in the space she vacated. On those shelves were two CDs. I couldn’t make out what the CDs were.

“Wouldn’t it be weird if one of those CDs was Warren Zevon?”

“That’s pretty improbable.”

Why did I even say that out loud? Of course it wasn’t a Warren Zevon CD! Nobody in Peru listened to Warren Zevon. Nobody there even knew who he was! Predicting that one of two random CDs in a Lima bar was Warren Zevon would be like correctly guessing the day a professional football team spontaneously decided to select a guy from the stands to play quarterback for the day.

It just won’t happen.

We had some more drinks. We talked about school. The music played on.

For some reason, I couldn’t forget about the CDs. Now that I’d brought it up, the concept tickled me. I noticed a bizarre sequence of random acts.

It was a random act that I started thinking about Warren Zevon, it was another random act that I noticed some CDs on the shelf, it was yet another random act that I actually voiced the hope that one of them was Warren Zevon.

Kyle caught me looking at the shelf.

“It’s not a Warren Zevon CD,” he said.

“But wouldn’t it be funny if it was?”

“Yeah, but it’s not. I mean, that’s like hitting a lottery number. It’s just not possible.”

“We’re in a Skinner box right now, the CD is both Zevon and not Zevon.”

“It’s not a Skinner’s box. It can’t be Zevon.”

“We’ll only know for sure if we ask.”

“Fine, ask her.”

“You’re curious too now.”

“I’m not admitting that.”

The next time the waitress came around, I gestured to the CDs on the shelf. “Can I see those?”

She shrugged, handed me the CDs, then wandered off.

I looked at the first CD, I can’t even remember who it was, probably some random Salsa band. I slid the plastic box off to the side and froze. Kyle froze too, it was exactly like somebody had hit the pause button on a movie. We were both stupefied by the fact that we were looking down at a CD entitled A Quiet Normal Life: The Best of Warren Zevon.

It was one of those unforgettable moments, both poignant and meaningless. It was as if the universe wished to show it was listening, but also wanted to emphasize that it would only be a smart ass about what prayers to answer.

Finally Kyle spoke, “You set that up.”

“I swear to god I didn’t.”

There’s a sincerity, like recovery from heroin addiction, which creates a sound that can’t be faked.

It took us a bit longer to come to grips with the moment.

Then we started to laugh. A sense of lingering magic filled the air.

I got nothing out of it but the memory, but that’s the kind of thing I live for.