The British Invasion and El Arte De Fusil

If the British invaded North America via the Atlantic, in Mexico they came via the Rio Grande. Starting around late 1964, a new wave of bands literally versed in the emergent rock scene abroad descended on the capital from the northern provinces in search of record contracts and broader audiences. Accustomed to performing for tourists in nightclubs along the border, these bands bowled over Mexico City crowds with their adept English-language renditions of the latest rock sensations. Overnight, Spanish-language re-

fritos became trite, second-rate efforts compared with the "originals" that these new bands performed. In fact, as the novelist and rock musician Federico Arana recalls, these "frontier armies," as he labels them, created an economic crisis for other bands. In order to defend their commercial turf, the older bands found themselves in competition with musicians whose mastery of English was far superior. "In sum," Arana writes, "this was a crisis for us rockers, as we had quite a bit of work to catch up on. All of those middle-class consumers of records from the latest British superstars were dying to hear 'live' hits such as 'Twist and Shout,' 'Girl,' 'I Saw Her Standing There,' etcetera."^[1] With names such as Los Dug Dugs, Los Yaki, Los Belmonts, Los Apson, Tijuana-5, and Javier Batiz and His Famous Finks, these new bands dramatically transformed the cultural scene emanating from the capital.

These exact English-language covers of the original became known as fusiles or el arte de fusil , literally "the art of projection" (from the verb fusilar , "to take aim"). As greater importance was placed on access to the originals, a concept of authenticity explicitly grounded in English-language performance and the imported album, the idea of the refrito was disparaged, and record companies were forced to shift their approach accordingly, though they still resisted breaking free of the formula of Spanish-language covers. On studio recordings, all groups were still pressured by the companies to sing Spanish refritos; this was the only way bands could expect air-play for their songs. But records pressed in Mexico now generally included both English and Spanish translations (as well as credits, something that had been neglected earlier) of the song titles. Moreover, liner notes addressed the significance of what lay inside, as with the 45 rpm single of the Rolling Stones' "Paint It Black": "The Rolling Stones hold the trump card among all of the other interpreters of modern music: their authenticity. They're authentic in how they play, sing, dress, speak, behave in public or any other situation; in how they select their repertoire, make their [musical] arrangements, and devote themselves wholly [to what they do], from their image of wanton abandon to the depths of their thinking."^[2] Whereas earlier the lyric content had been less important than the musical rhythm—allowing for the wide success of the refritos, which often took liberties in their translations from the original—now what was said became as important as how it was said.

But in live performances, audiences increasingly demanded a more "authentic" version of the tunes they were hearing, which required singing in English. The novelist and critic José Agustín, in praising the quality of Los Dug Dugs—a band from Durango that built a reputation based on its pre-

cise interpretations of foreign rock, especially the Beatles—wrote that the band's performance of certain difficult songs in fact "exceeded the original versions."^[3] This striving to perfection in English may be explained partially by the fact that while middle-class youth yearned to be a part of the global counterculture, their lived experiences were in fact defined by cultural marginalization. Magazines widely disseminated images, lyrics, and stories about the rock movement abroad, and radio stations began to play selected hits of the new music. Yet unconditional access on demand was out of the question, except perhaps for the upper classes: due to high tariffs, records were still exceedingly costly and difficult to come by. Moreover, the prospect of seeing a well-known artist perform live was virtually nil. Seen from this perspective, the mimicking of foreign rock styles and intonations was not only an attempt to belong to a global movement; it also became an act of defiance against a cultural and political structure that limited and denied access to rock as (world) popular culture.

The route by which Los Dug Dugs came to Mexico City and achieved fame is instructive of this process. Armando Nava, the band's lead guitarist, singer, and flautist, explained how he went to Tijuana with a group he had first formed in high school. On the border they found work playing at cabaret theaters catering to tourists. "We started off playing music in Spanish, but then played in English too," he said. As band leader, he immersed himself in Beatles songs and, despite his lack of English, managed to learn the lyrics. When he felt the group's repertoire was perfected, the band headed for Mexico City in the hopes of striking it big. In the capital they literally became agents for the introduction of music that was defined above all by its scarcity. Describing the market for rock in Mexico City, Nava recalls that it "was virgin in terms of the music we brought with us.... They hadn't heard this music before. For example, we started [our first concert] with the Beatles, 'You've Got to Hide Your Love Away,' and the crowd went nuts. Nobody played those things."^[4] In fact, Los Dug Dugs' introduction of the Beatles' repertoire preceded the arrival of Capitol Records, the Beatles' label, which did not establish a subsidiary in Mexico City until 1965, after the Beatles were already a worldwide sensation.^[5] Up to that point, the Beatles' catalog was distributed locally by Musart, a company not particularly known for its rock selection. As Nava explained, "Music in English became extremely popular in Mexico, but it took forever for what was known [abroad] to arrive.... For example, we already had the albums. We brought them directly from the United States and would learn the music before it even came here. Then when we played it we were the ones who made it popular, even before it was on the radio.... That was an important

factor in why Los Dug Dugs became so well known."^[6] It was precisely this lack of access to rock as a mass cultural phenomenon that reinforced a sense of cultural distancing and hence the urging by fans to "get closer" to the original.^[7]

The problem of access was due above all to the high tariff barriers that discouraged mass distribution. One informant who grew up in Cuernavaca, an hour's drive south of Mexico City and where rock was even less available than it was in the capital, recalled how the limited availability of rock transformed the acquisition of a new album into a communally experienced event: "[Our music came] from people who went to the United States. We were always trying to track down those people who traveled back and forth to tape another record.... Buying [albums] wasn't very widespread. It wasn't very easy. So, [people's collections] were like treasuries.... If someone got a new record it was a question of getting together to listen to it at whichever house had the best record player and comment on it, admire it."^[8] From the industry's perspective, the tariff walls meant that record sales required a lengthier process of reproduction from the original master. As Enrique Partida, who worked with Polydor Records (now Polygram) relates, "Music wasn't really imported [by record companies] then like it is today, with the compact disc. Everything was done in Mexico. The master tape was brought to Mexico, and the record was produced with art on the album cover and everything. Importation [by the companies] was rather limited [because of high tariffs]. So, the process [of producing an album from the master] took between six months and a year ... That is, with the exception of the Beatles [after 19651]."^[9] This process imposed a rationale of economic efficiency that inevitably compromised the integrity of the original album. A song's availability depended on the company's decision to acquire the master (determined by licensing agreements and presumptions of the local market for a particular artist), which in itself could mean up to a year's delay. Moreover, the record companies were quite content to reproduce composite albums or simply 45 rpm singles of an artist's hits—which could be exploited on an individual basis—without regard to the orientation of the original album's presentation.

The record companies understood the demand for rock clearly enough, but their marketing strategy closely followed the trajectory of an earlier musical product. What they failed to grasp was the longing of fans for greater access and the need to "get closer" to the authentic rock commodity. It was not only the song that now mattered but, ultimately, access to its authentic presentation as well.

Thus, album covers and even song titles were often deformed through

translation or simple misspelling, according to the whim or, more generally, ignorance of the local producer. In a period when the album cover itself would become increasingly integral to the concept of the record as art commodity, access to a second-rate version reinforced a sense of cultural marginalization. As Armando Blanco, later founder of Mexico City's first rock-paraphernalia shop, Hip-70, dedicated in particular to the importation of foreign rock, commented, "Many times [the record companies] changed the tracks, or from two records they produced only one, thus wrecking what was traditional and sacred concerning the album cover and the movement itself—above all, the spirit that was under way."^[10] Hence the massification of a rock concept embodied in the images, discussions, and available sounds linked to the rock phenomenon occurring abroad contradicted the limited accessibility of rock as a commodity within the reach of the middle classes. Moreover, the marketing of rock music occurred without regard to an authentic replication of the original rock commodity itself. Rock music's consumption was thus doubly fetishized: first because of the nature of rock as a mass cultural commodity (that is, the masking of production that occurs in the studio); and then because of the inherent distancing of Mexican rock consumers from the original product (a situation that distorted the exchange value of the rock album still further).^[11]

Though the public had only limited access to the actual recordings, the impact of the British invasion was felt nonetheless, especially in the transformation of radio programming. Local bands continued to receive airplay for their covers, now mostly ballads, but other stations dedicated time exclusively to the original, a change of vital significance for a younger generation coming of age. As Jaime Pontones, now an important rock disc jockey in Mexico City, recalls:

I remember listening to Radio Mil, where they played Los Teen Tops, Los Rebeldes del Rock—all of those groups—and one day, I changed the station and came upon Radio Capital ... and I started to hear what was already being played on Radio Mil, only in English! And suddenly, after hearing "Jailhouse Rock" in Spanish, I now heard how it sounded in English. I was totally blown away! And I think that happened to a lot of people of my generation; that is, they passed from Los Teen Tops and whatnot to the first "English Wave" around 1964 or so.^[12]

Being close enough to actually see the Beatles or the Rolling Stones in person—or the countless other groups that heralded the rock revolution—was highly unlikely. Mexican audiences instead would have to remain content with the simulacrum performances of local bands that, by necessity

and default, emerged as the interpreters of a countercultural consciousness exploding around the world.