#bomba drums

[artblooger19moon]

Puerto Rico 🇵🇷

[389]

TOP 10 WEEKLY FINDS (JUNE) PART ²

Wicca Phase Springs Eternal - WICCA PHASE SPRINGS ETERNAL

CHRONIC JELLY - BASS WATER FREAK OUT

K-mps - 2019-2021

Pro Unlimited  - Various [Comic Sans Recordings]

Sans Rel​â​che - Various Artists

Junglist Code - Sikka

V/A - Drum & Bass Selection 6 - Collectors Edition

Yet - Various Artists

Bomba Patch Vol. 1 [VA] - Side B -   DSRPTV + Nice & Deadly

Low Gear No Pressure - Lyra Valenza

Click here for Part 1

[ariadnesweb]

In contrast to the first movie, The second spiderverse movie places a lot of emphasis on Miles's Puerto Rican Heritage:

We are introduced to his universe while Miles is protecting a bodega, eating refried empanadas

The background music during this introduction seems to be inspired by the Bomba genre of music, in which dancers keep the beat to the drum.

The main victim of Miles's double-life as Spider-man seems to be his grade in Spanish, as he presumably skipped out on the language he was already familiar with. This is Very Much to his mom's dismay, as Miles's spanish is littered with spanglish.

(It's not that big of a deal, Rio's spanish is also mixed with spanglish, though it's very much a cultural pride thing.)

Rio's main conflict with Miles is that he's growing up away from her, moving away from Brooklyn, very much living a life she doesn't totally understand.

Rio herself lives in a world defined by familial relationships, in which she's brought to talk preemptively at Aaron's funeral by her family (though she would rather wait for Miles's to be there beforehand). She expects Miles to continue the family heritage and pride, and is confused at the idea that he would have to play up the American Dream Myth to get accepted into his chosen university, despite his own middle-class background.

Miles himself is gathering up the courage to break it to his mom that he is his own person, defined by his double-life as Spiderman, and not necessarily in line with her expectations of him.

Miles's own antagonist throughout the film is the alternate universe spiderman, Miguel O'Hara, a mexican and irish man who created and leads the Spider Society.

Miles slots Miguel in as another 'uncle/dad/older brother' parental figure in his life, ala his dad, uncle Aaron, Hobbie, and Peter B., calling him 'tio'.

Your Mileage May Vary on how Miguel connects to Miles culturally, since his main beef with Miles is tied to what 'Spiderman' represents, but I personally find him reminiscent to my own Cuban stepfather, as an older educated man who found his own place in the world at the cost of a lot of harsh life experience. Both his strength and tragedy is shaped by the loss of his 'old world' upon a new one, as well as personal experience with armed violence. These experiences have shaped Miguel to believe himself the 'lone atlas' holding up society, and whose principles as 'The Man' are to be imposed on the younger generations following him (ie, Miles).

(Miles's victory over Miguel is very much to Not Follow His Example, to carve out his own personality and family for himself.)

The movie ends with Miles-1616 being confronted with his world 42 self - a version of himself that didn't become Spiderman, and instead, followed his uncle's footsteps to become the Prowler. Coincidentally, this version of himself has a 'cleaner' spanish pronunciation of his own last name, with shorter vowels and softer sounds.

(Not to downplay Miles's Black Heritage - his relationship with fellow black teen Hobbie Brown is vital, as well as the smaller relationships like Miles & Spider-Byte.) (Or Miles's Brooklyn connections that connect him to New York specifically.)

(Or to stop anyone from relating to Miles and his difficulties becoming his own Spider-Man.)

[realreulbbrband]

Okay this is so so random, but in a scooby doo au, which jellicles would be the hex girls

Ooooooo interesting

But I’m suprised I came up with an answer almost immediately

Thorn - Bombalurina

Luna - Cassandra

Dusk - Rumpleteazer

I selected these mostly based on their roles in the band and instruments they play Bomba as lead, Cassandra on a more casual instrument like the keyboard and Rump on something loud and prominent like drums.

But I do think they match personality wise too.

[calebom]

Carlos Cancio

« Por la encendida calle Antillana va Tembandumba de la Quimbamba »

Acrílico sobre lienzo, 2003

————

MAJESTAD NEGRA

Por: Luis Palés Matos

Por la encendida calle antillana

Va Tembandumba de la Quimbamba

--Rumba, macumba, candombe, bámbula---

Entre dos filas de negras caras.

Ante ella un congo--gongo y maraca--

ritma una conga bomba que bamba.

Culipandeando la Reina avanza,

Y de su inmensa grupa resbalan

Meneos cachondos que el congo cuaja

En ríos de azúcar y de melaza.

Prieto trapiche de sensual zafra,

El caderamen, masa con masa,

Exprime ritmos, suda que sangra,

Y la molienda culmina en danza.

Por la encendida calle antillana

Va Tembandumba de la Quimbamba.

Flor de Tórtola, rosa de Uganda,

Por ti crepitan bombas y bámbulas;

Por ti en calendas desenfrenadas

Quema la Antilla su sangre ñáñiga.

Haití te ofrece sus calabazas;

Fogosos rones te da Jamaica;

Cuba te dice: ¡dale, mulata!

Y Puerto Rico: ¡melao, melamba!

Sus, mis cocolos de negras caras.

Tronad, tambores; vibrad, maracas.

Por la encendida calle antillana

--Rumba, macumba, candombe, bámbula--

Va Tembandumba de la Quimbamba.

—————

Black Majesty

Translated by Paquito D’ Rivera

Down the scorching Antillean street

Goes Tembandumba of the Quimbamba*

Between two rows of black faces

--Rumba, macumba, candombe, bámbula.

Before her, a congo band thumps

A bombastic conga—gongos and maracas.

Moving her hips, the Queen steps up

And her immense buttocks with drums collide

The Congo seductive plays along

In curdled rivers of sugar and molasses.

Brown-skinned mill of sweet sensation,

Her colossal hips, those massive mortars,

Make rhythms ooze, sweat bleed like blood,

And all this grinding ends in dance.

Down the scorching Antillean street

Goes Tembandumba of the Quimbamba.

Flower of Tórtola, Rose of Uganda,

For you the bombas and bambulas crackle.

For you these feverish nights go wild

And set on fire Antilla’s ñáñiga blood.

Haiti offers you its gourds;

Jamaica pours its fiery rums;

Cuba tells you, give us what you got, mulata!

And Puerto Rico: melao, melamba!

Get down, my black-faced love-crazed rascals.

Jangle, drums, and jiggle, maracas.

Down the scorching Antillean street

Goes Tembandumba of the Quimbamba

--Rumba, macamba, candombe, bámbula.

https://open.spotify.com/track/17ICjvFJ3DhbL7INB6OpzE

[fellasleepinbaltimore]

puerto rican bomba (also it's often the dancer that leads the drums if you know what I mean, the last half of this video you really see what I'm talking about, it's very cool)

[sauzkronee]

an old sketch of a character called "bomba" who played the drums and had a very effusive personality (i still like him)

[betweendevilanddeepbluesea]

The Killers no son responsables del daño que Rusia le ha causado a Georgia, The Killers no causaron esos ataques y tampoco son seguidores de Putin. Yo no soy Brandon Flowers, pero lo que está claro y esta gente niega aceptarlo por su odio, es lo siguiente:

The Killers estaban haciendo su trabajo, Brandon Flowers se veía feliz y cuando vio el letrero de esta persona rusa, Brandon lo invito a subir porque le atrajó mucho la insistencia de esta persona. Después, cuando el sujeto se subió al escenario y Brandon Flowers le preguntó de qué lugar era, él le respondió que es ruso, al oírlo (Brandon Flowers consciente de los conflictos que existen en ambos países porque no es ignorante, él es una persona culta y está al tanto de lo que ocurre en el mundo), le preguntó a la audiencia si estaban de acuerdo que este joven ruso amenizara la noche con ellos; el público dijo que sí, pero después los abuchearon.

Entonces, Brandon Flowers se enojó y se asustó por igual porque pensaba que el público era maduro y sabía que el tipo que tocó la batería con ellos no lanzó las bombas, no mató a esa gente; además, el público se supone, fue al concierto a olvidarse de sus problemas y resultó como si está gente fueran fanáticos y no pudieran razonar.

Brandon Flowers se enojó porque solo estaba desempeñando su trabajo como músico. Entonces, por qué rayos invitaron a The Killers a ese lugar a dar un concierto, entonces por qué rayos dejan a las personas de nacionalidad rusa entrar en sus recintos. Además, violencia genera violencia, al igual que el odio y el odio que algunas personas de Georgia manifiestan con The Killers se asemeja al odio de los rusos que invadieron a su pais.

Brandon Flowers al asustarse, no dijo bien lo que quería decir, él quería decir que todos somos hermanos y hermanas a los ojos de Dios y que no hay que odiarnos porque este mal seguirá; Brandon Flowers quiso decir que con la música desaparecen las barreras y todos somos seres humanos, pero el odio de estas personas fue más fuerte.

Y aunque odien a The Killers, esto no se va a detener y no se recuperarán las vidas perdidas. Y The Killers no están defendiendo a The Killers no sean baba de osos. 😠

😔😔😔😔😔😔

The Killers are not responsible for the damage that Russia has done to Georgia, The Killers did not cause those attacks and they are not supporters of Putin either. I am not Brandon Flowers, but what is clear and these people refuse to accept it because of their hatred, is the following:

The Killers were doing their job, Brandon Flowers looked happy and when he saw the sign of this Russian person, Brandon invited him to come up because he was very attracted to this person's insistence. Later, when the subject got on stage and Brandon Flowers asked him where he was from, he replied that he is Russian, upon hearing it (Brandon Flowers aware of the conflicts that exist in both countries because he is not ignorant, he is a cultured person and is aware of what is happening in the world), he asked the audience if they agreed that this young Russian entertained the night with them; the public said yes, but then they were booed.

So Brandon Flowers was equally angry and scared because he thought the crowd was mature and he knew that the guy who played drums with them didn't drop the bombs, he didn't kill those people; In addition, the public is supposed to have gone to the concert to forget about his problems and it turned out as if these people were fanatics and could not reason.

Brandon Flowers got mad that he was just doing his job as a musician. So why the hell did they invite The Killers to that venue for a concert, then why the hell do they let people of Russian nationality into their venues. Also, violence begets violence, just like the hate and hate that some Georgians show with The Killers resembles the hate of the Russians who invaded their country.

When Brandon Flowers scared, he did not say what he wanted to say correctly, he wanted to say that we are all brothers and sisters in the eyes of God and that we should not hate each other because this evil will continue; Brandon Flowers wanted to say that with music barriers disappear and we are all human beings, but the hatred of these people was stronger.

And even if they hate The Killers, this is not going to stop and the lives lost will not be recovered. And The Killers are not defending The Killers don't be bear slime. 😠

[thefranciscotts]

Feira do Presunto & Enchidos

The Festa season is in full swing now and this weekend wad our village's chance. We've had a late spell of rain which put a slight damper on the events but nothing can hold us Atalaians down! I love the traditional dancing and the entertainment it's such a vibe with great food and drinks and everyone dancing (well us in any case but yeah). The kids were there with their gang of friends too and it was the first festa where Lola begged not to go home (definitely our child).

The bombas (drum groups) always kick the weekend off and it really turns into a battle of the bombas as the nearby regions come to play. There was a brilliant percussion band called Moustache Band (none of them had mustaches- go figure) and the Fado singers were a great experience. Also loved the guys on the little guitars roaming the street and playing.

There were also demonstrations on how you make chouriço, alheira and morcella and you could buy one and grill on the fire. A great weekend was definitely had by all and just another reminder of how lucky we are to have been welcomed into the village with open arms and made some great friends along the way.

[piononostalgia]

Carlos Cancio

« Por la encendida calle Antillana va Tembandumba de la Quimbamba »

Acrílico sobre lienzo, 2003

————

MAJESTAD NEGRA

Por: Luis Palés Matos

Por la encendida calle antillana

Va Tembandumba de la Quimbamba

--Rumba, macumba, candombe, bámbula---

Entre dos filas de negras caras.

Ante ella un congo--gongo y maraca--

ritma una conga bomba que bamba.

Culipandeando la Reina avanza,

Y de su inmensa grupa resbalan

Meneos cachondos que el congo cuaja

En ríos de azúcar y de melaza.

Prieto trapiche de sensual zafra,

El caderamen, masa con masa,

Exprime ritmos, suda que sangra,

Y la molienda culmina en danza.

Por la encendida calle antillana

Va Tembandumba de la Quimbamba.

Flor de Tórtola, rosa de Uganda,

Por ti crepitan bombas y bámbulas;

Por ti en calendas desenfrenadas

Quema la Antilla su sangre ñáñiga.

Haití te ofrece sus calabazas;

Fogosos rones te da Jamaica;

Cuba te dice: ¡dale, mulata!

Y Puerto Rico: ¡melao, melamba!

Sus, mis cocolos de negras caras.

Tronad, tambores; vibrad, maracas.

Por la encendida calle antillana

--Rumba, macumba, candombe, bámbula--

Va Tembandumba de la Quimbamba.

—————

Black Majesty

Translated by Paquito D’ Rivera

Down the scorching Antillean street

Goes Tembandumba of the Quimbamba*

Between two rows of black faces

--Rumba, macumba, candombe, bámbula.

Before her, a congo band thumps

A bombastic conga—gongos and maracas.

Moving her hips, the Queen steps up

And her immense buttocks with drums collide

The Congo seductive plays along

In curdled rivers of sugar and molasses.

Brown-skinned mill of sweet sensation,

Her colossal hips, those massive mortars,

Make rhythms ooze, sweat bleed like blood,

And all this grinding ends in dance.

Down the scorching Antillean street

Goes Tembandumba of the Quimbamba.

Flower of Tórtola, Rose of Uganda,

For you the bombas and bambulas crackle.

For you these feverish nights go wild

And set on fire Antilla’s ñáñiga blood.

Haiti offers you its gourds;

Jamaica pours its fiery rums;

Cuba tells you, give us what you got, mulata!

And Puerto Rico: melao, melamba!

Get down, my black-faced love-crazed rascals.

Jangle, drums, and jiggle, maracas.

Down the scorching Antillean street

Goes Tembandumba of the Quimbamba

--Rumba, macamba, candombe, bámbula.

[jellicle-shifters-au]

all aboard: after hours

prev | next

the next installment of the demeter escapes onto skimble’s train au! this one’s a little longer.

----

It’s the early hours of the morning when the train reaches the station. The passengers unload one by one, with Skimble directing them off in as orderly a fashion as possible, and none of them are any the wiser to the woman still tucked away under the table.

Skimble had periodically checked in on Demeter throughout the trip, making his stops as inconspicuous as possible until night had fallen and the other passengers had gone to sleep. The first two times, she’d been asleep herself, curled as tightly as she could manage against the wall of the car. The third time, when Skimble had brought her a spare tray of food from the dining car, she’d been awake, and the fear in her eyes turned darker when she saw him; she curled her back, hunching forward, and bared her teeth in a silent hiss, her green eyes flashing gold and dangerous in the dim light of the train car.

Easy, now, he’d whispered to her, and showed her the tray to demonstrate he meant no harm, but her demeanor never changed, and she hissed at him again. I know you’re hungry, lass, he’d said softly, careful not to wake the passengers. And he’d seen it, ever so slightly, the tension faded from her shoulders even while her teeth were still bared and her eyes still shone. I’m going to leave this right here, whenever you want it. He’d set the tray down, just under the table, out of the aisle where it might get stepped on, and walked away.

The next time he came around, the tray had been wiped clean and left at the edge of the booth. Demeter was asleep again, looking far more content with a full stomach.

When the passengers have disembarked, Skimble goes back into the train. He’d notified the engineer of their surprise passenger, told him to hold off on leaving the station, notified the staff at the station, and had called the police himself.

I have a missing woman here on my train, he’d told them. Yes, Demeter Mayweather.

The police had agreed to meet them at the station not long after arriving.

But as Skimble goes back into the car and peers under the table, greeted with the same fear-aggressive hiss from Demeter, he thinks there’s someone else he should call.

The phone rings three times before his niece picks up, her voice raspy and slow with sleep. “Uncle Skimble?” She sighs, there’s a rustling of sheets as she shifts in the bed.

“Bomba,” he answers. 

“It’s three in the morning,” Bomba says plainly.

“I know.” Skimble sits down at the edge of the booth across from Demeter. She hisses at him again, her fear growing with every second. “But I have a situation that could use your expertise.”

—

When Bomba gets to the station, the police have already cordoned it off with flashing lights and black and white cars. At this hour of the night, the station is empty, or mostly empty, and the few stragglers that are around to catch the early train have been moved to a separate area. Bomba gets a glimpse of human shapes in the windows of the nearby waiting area as she power walks through the line of flashing lights, pulling her overcoat tighter around her. She curls her lip, fangs growing out, and looks away from the window before someone can see her eyes flashing unnaturally in the light.

On the other side of the line, officers are milling around the ticket booth in twos and threes, and Skimbleshanks stands off to the side, hands in his vest pockets, drumming nervously. Bomba goes to him first, catching the eye of Homer Williams as she goes. She nods to him, a promise she’ll catch up with him once she’s spoken to Skimble. His eyes shine gold as he nods.

“Uncle Skimble,” she says, the last traces of sleep gone from her voice. Her uncle turns to her, shocked then relieved to see her. He looks overtly panicked, his eyes flickering between her and the ticket booth, the door shut but the lights on. He fiddles with the chain of his pocket watch, tucked into the pocket on his vest, and as she gets closer he pulls it out and checks the time, then puts it away, only to pull it out again as though he hadn’t really paid attention to the time.

“Bom—” he clears his throat, glances at the officers standing within earshot and fiddles with his pocket watch again, making sure it’s safely tucked away. “Rina. Rina, I’m glad you’re here—”

“What happened, Uncle Skimble?” He hadn’t sounded so frazzled over the phone when he called her, but something has clearly changed in between the time she hung up with him and the time it took her to get here. Skimble glances at the officers again, then at the ticket booth, and then meets Bomba’s eyes, if only for a moment before he’s searching the area again.

“That poor woman,” Skimble says, shaking his head, running his fingers along the chain of his pocket watch. “She’s so frightened, Rina, I tried to help her the best I could but…” He trails off with a shake of his head.

Bomba rests her arm on his shoulder.  “You did what you could for her.” He fed her, kept her safe, got her to where he could and called the police as soon as he could. There wasn’t much more he could do for Demeter beyond that.

But Skimble shakes his head, his eyes tearing up, and finally Bomba catches Homer’s eye and nods him over. He breaks away from the group and slowly makes his way over with the practiced stalk of a search dog. She turns her attention back to Skimble.

“What happened after we spoke?” She moves her hand to his back and rubs a small circle.

Skimble inhales deeply, shaking his head. “She was awake before I called you,” he says. He glances up as Homer joins them, and not without a slight reflexive curl to his lip. His teeth poke out from under his lips. “I told her the police were on their way, they’d take care of her, but she…she panicked. She was—is—terrified. She never said a word. And when I tried to get her off the train, she…she shifted and bolted…”

“And she’s been in the ticket booth ever since,” Homer finishes, a note of sympathy in his voice.

Bomba rubs another circle on Skimble’s back, letting him lean into her shoulder. “Has anyone tried to talk to her?”

Homer takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the action, and sucks at the inside of his lip. “I tried,” he says slowly, “once we established she was one of ours.” One of ours, because when it matters, there are no cat shifters or dog shifters, there are just shifters. “She started hissing and spitting at me the second I walked through the door. I left it at that. Thought she might try to bolt again.”

He looks over his shoulder at the gathered officers, makes eye contact with one of them, and gives him a nod. “I’m good for a lot of things, Rina, but this isn’t one of them. I think your uncle had the right idea calling you.”

“Alright,” Bomba says softly. Her hand moves to Skimble’s shoulder; she gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Let me try to talk to her, then. I’ll see what I can do.” 

Homer moves aside to let her pass, with another silent signal to the rest of his patrol. Bomba can feel their eyes on her as she moves toward the ticket booth, one step at a time, slower as she gets closer to the door. She doesn’t know how Demeter will react when she hears the door open again.

Instead of opening it and barging straight in, Bomba knocks, and waits for a response. She doesn’t get one, but there’s a little noise from the other side of the door. Bomba opens it slightly, just enough to poke her head in, and says, “Hello?”

She still doesn’t get an answer, just the sound of shuffling from under the desk. The smell of fear with a hint of something sour but faintly familiar hits her in the face; her arm jerks with the instinct to slam the door shut and back away, but Bomba keeps it opened right where it is, and even dares to open it further and step into the room. She leaves the door open, just a little. It’s a risk if Demeter panics and decides to shift to make her escape, but at least if she feels too trapped, too closed in, and wants an out, she has the option. 

Demeter doesn’t make another sound as Bomba comes into the room. She huddles silently under the desk; when Bomba is finally able to see her, she’s curled as tightly as she can manage and shoved herself as far into the corner as possible. She stares at Bomba with wide green eyes, and after a moment of taking in the woman in front of her, she bares her teeth and hisses.

“It’s alright,” Bomba says, keeping her voice low and soothing. She slowly kneels down, mindful of the chair. It’s a flimsy barrier between herself and Demeter, but it’s a barrier nonetheless. Any ounce of the feeling of safety she can give Demeter, the better. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Now that she’s closer to Demeter, that sour and faintly familiar smell is stronger. It’s one she knows, all too well.

Rats.

Macavity.

No wonder the poor thing is so terrified.

Demeter hisses again, but softer. A gentler warning not to come close. 

“You’re alright, love,” Bomba says softly. “You’re safe.”

Something flickers in Demeter’s eyes. Am I?

“I promise,” Bomba answers. “No one is going to hurt you. We just want to help.”

Demeter doesn’t answer. Her spitting, fearful anger fades into cautious curiosity. She gulps. A tiny, airy sound comes from her throat.

“My name is Bombalurina,” Bomba says. She offers a gentle smile. “Most people call me Bomba. The humans call me Rina.”

Still Demeter doesn’t say anything, but stares at Bomba and quietly considers. She curls herself tighter against the back of the desk. After a moment, her eyes drift back and forth over the wall behind Bomba, she gulps again, and says in a voice so small and hoarse Bomba almost doesn’t hear her, “You’re—?”

“A shapeshifter?” she asks, and opens her mouth to let Demeter get a good look at her canines, unnaturally long for a human. She closes her mouth after a moment. “Yes.”

Demeter doesn’t say anything, but continues to stare, her eyes bright with fear.

“A feline,” Bomba says, “like you. Let me show you.” She stands up, slowly and carefully so as to not spook Demeter, and spares a quick glance out the window. Officers are still milling about, taking down the last few notes they can, while Skimbleshanks and Homer are right where Bomba left them. She hopes to make eye contact with Homer, to give him the hint not to let anyone in. But he doesn’t look her way, his eyes fixed on the group of officers, and Bomba has to hope that he’ll keep any of them from getting too close from looking into the ticket booth when she shifts.

There is only one rule among shapeshifters: Never shift in front of humans. Keep their kind safe—cat, rat, and dog alike—even if the humans had an inkling of their existence—what paramount.

Bomba drapes her overcoat over the nearest filing cabinet. She doesn’t need to take any article of clothing off to be able to shift, she can shift just fine without removing anything, but something about having her overcoat on when she changes makes her fur feel thicker and heavier than normal.

Then she crouches back down to Demeter’s level, and shifts effortlessly, from a tall, red-haired woman into a massive, longhaired red molly splashed with white.

The humans might call her a Maine Coon or a Norwegian Forest Cat, but to herself, and to the rest of her kind, she has no breed. She is a Jellicle Cat, as all cats are. She is Bombalurina, Fourth Protector of the Jellicle Tribe.

She swishes her tail in a wide arc across the floor behind her, stirring up dirt and stray bits of paper, and watches for Demeter’s reaction. The molly stares at her in stunned silence, her pupils blown wide, her eyes flicking back and forth, looking Bomba over as she tries to decide what to make of this. 

It occurs to Bomba then, in the moment of silence as Demeter deliberates, that the only other shapeshifters Demeter has met thus far are the ones who caused her months of pain and misery. Her experience with others of her own kind has not, to say the least, been encouraging.

Then, at last, Demeter nods, but hugs herself tightly and pulls her knees closer to her chest. Instead of opening herself up to Bomba, she shrinks away further, deeper into the corner under the desk.

Oh dear. Bomba shifts back, kneeling on the floor, and wipes her hands on her skirt. A pale streak of dust comes away from her palms. She brushes it away.

“That man,” she says, nodding to the door, “the one who tried to talk to you. His name is Homer. Did he tell you that?”

Demeter nods again, almost imperceptibly. 

“I’m so sorry he frightened you, love,” Bomba says gently. “He’s one of ours—not ours, specifically, not a feline, but a canine. He works for the police department. He often serves as a point of contact when shifters are involved.”

Demeter says nothing, but her face goes white. She swallows thickly, hunching down further in her corner.

Bomba frowns and looks her over. “Demeter?”

She doesn’t miss it, the way Demeter flinches, her shoulder coming up to her jaw, her hand twitching, torn between letting go of the grip she has on her tattered white t-shirt and shielding herself from a blow that doesn’t come. Demeter swallows thickly, with a little sound at the back of her throat. The smell of her fear comes back stronger, prickling at the back of her throat.

“What’s wrong, Demeter?”

But Demeter flinches again, this time shielding her face with both hands, and sobs softly. She makes another sound, one that sounds like a choked plea.

Bomba realizes. Macavity’s made Demeter afraid of her own name.

Oh…

“Why don’t we try something else?” Bomba offers gently. 

Demeter’s hands fall away, and she looks up at Bomba, pale, wide-eyed, and trembling, tears welling in her eyes. The scent of her terror is nearly overwhelming.

“You’re alright, love,” Bomba says. “You’re alright, I promise. I’m not going to hurt you.” She wishes more than anything that she could mark Demeter the way she marks a frightened kitten when they need to feel safe and reassured: pressing her forehead to Demeter’s, rubbing her cheek on one side of her head, then the other. She can see Demeter so desperately craves that, but her terror and trauma holds her back. And it holds Bomba back, in the event that she makes Demeter feel anything but.

She offers her hand instead, knuckles toward Demeter, fingers curled in toward her palm, the way cats do to tell another they are known. It means I accept you. I welcome you. You belong. Here, for Demeter, it means I have you.

Demeter doesn’t reciprocate at first. She stares at Bomba’s hand, her own clasped to her chest, then at Bomba, and back again, not knowing what to make of the gesture. Bomba holds her hand where it is, and waits.

Eventually, Demeter slowly and carefully unfolds her arm from her chest and reaches out toward Bomba’s hand. The touch lasts but a moment, the barest hint of skin brushing against skin, before Demeter pulls her hand close to her again. But a little of the tension has gone out of her shoulders, a little color returns to her face, and she swallows as she looks up at Bomba.

“Okay,” she whispers, so softly Bomba almost doesn’t hear her.

“Okay,” Bomba replies. “Okay.” 

And she lets that sit between them.

[culturesofresistancefilms]

Percussive instruments such as bomba barrels, bata drums, bongo drums and tambourines are part of the rich musical heritage of Puerto Rico, and its musical traditions in Afro-Puerto Rican music as well as salsa and Afro-Latin popular music. Nuestros Tambores is a project of the Center for Creative Economy that celebrates percussion crafts in Puerto Rico as an element of heritage, culture, and creative economy. Their work focuses on artisans, and the social and cultural context in which they develop. Through the Nuestros Tambores archive, visitors can learn about the biographies of drummers, historical context and reflect on the contribution of this sector to their cultural identity and its potential for development. Our L/G foundation, has been proud to support a film project from Nuestros Tambores. 

Read more here: https://culturesofresistance.org/allied-projects/nuestros-tambores/ 

Images: Nuestros Tambores

[killerandhealerqueen]

Rover - The 3rd Mini Album Review

Rover: I love the way Kai's voice sounds in this song and the fucking chorus...so damn catchy. And his HIGH NOTE! Yesss god

Black Mirror: A song that's showing off his rap skills...and then it switches up and moves to a more...melodic flow. I started off not really feeling this one but as you keep listening to it you're like...alright, alright, I'm feeling this

Slidin': I like this one. It has the vibes of Peaches, like the instrumental, but it goes a little harder. I love his runs that he does...Kai, teach me how

Bomba: Oh hello...a sexy dance song. I love the instrumental...it sounds like something you'd hear in like a Bad Bunny or Daddy Yankee song. Like, that kind of Latin vibes.

Say You Love Me: I thought this was gonna be a ballad from the name but jokes on me. I don't really know how to feel about this one. It's a song that fits Kai and I don't think another artist could do it, but I don't know if it's really my style

Sinner: Oh, this is the slow song that I was expecting from 'Say You Love Me'. But I love his lower register for this song. And I love the instrumental for it...the thumping drum kind of sounds like a beating heart and I wonder if that's what he was going for

Overall: I enjoyed the mini album! I do think my favorite song has to be Bomba though, out of all of them. Rover is nice and it's a perfect title track...well done, Kai

[djzibaz]

On now! Channel Z with DJZibaZ 2-4pm pacific time Sundays on KLBP.ORG! 1) Aterciopelados-15añera 2) Ana Tijoux-1977 3) Make-Up -(I’ve Heard About) Saturday Nite 4) Cat Power-After it All 5) Knapsack-Addressee 6) Sufjan Stevens-A Short Reprise for Mary Todd, Who Went Insane But For Very Good Reasons 7) Bomba Estéreo-Agua 8 ) Enon-Adalania (Not So Fair) 9) French Vanilla-All the Time 10) Rainer Maria-Alchemy 11) Books-All Our Base Are Belong To Them 12) Ladytron-Beauty 13) CSULB Steel Drum Band-Batty Mamselle 14) Built to Spill-Bloody Rainbow 15) Vanishing-Black Umbrellas 16) ADULT.-Blank Eyed, Nose Bleed 17) Rilo Kiley-Breakin’ Up 18) Reggie & the Full Effect-Boot to the Moon 19) American Football-But the Regrets are Killing Me 20) Pretty Girls Make Graves-C30 C60 C90 Go! 21) At The Drive-In-Call Broken Arrow 22) Get Up Kids-Central Standard Time 23) Choir Boy-Complainer 24) Palomino Blond-Creature Natural 25) Boy Pablo-Honey 26) Blonde Redhead-3 O’clock 27) Dntel-(This is) The Dream Of Evan And Chan (Safety Scissors Spilled My Drink Mix) 28) Dismemberment Plan-A Life of Possibilities 29) The City on Film-Blue Vegas 30) Pinback-Charborg https://www.mixcloud.com/DJZibaZ/channel-z-ep-101-sunday-september-4th-2002-2-4pm-klbp-991fm-long-beach-public-radio/ (at KLBP) https://www.instagram.com/p/CiGY7RFPrAz/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

New Video: Los Bitchos Share Glittery Visual for Disco-Inspired Romp "La Bomba"

New Video: Los Bitchos Share Glittery Visual for Disco-Inspired Romp "La Bomba" @LBitchos @CitySlang @motormouthmedia

Acclaimed London-based instrumental outfit Los Bitchos — Australian-born, Serra Petale (guitar); Uruguayan-born Agustina Ruiz (keytar); Swedish-born, Josefine Jonsson (bass) and London-born Nic Crawshaw (drums) — can trace their origins to meeting at various late-night parties and through mutual friends. Inspired by their individual members’ different upbringings and backgrounds, the acclaimed…

[trastornadosrevista]

CA7RIEL & PACO AMOROSO LANZAN SU PRIMER DISCO: BAÑO MARÍA

El lanzamiento que ya sabías que necesitabas: BAÑO MARÍA, el primer disco en conjunto de CA7RIEL & Paco Amoroso, ya se encuentra disponible en todas las plataformas. Son pocos los artistas que pueden hacer del cualquierismo una estética definida e identitaria. Y eso es lo que han logrado CA7RIEL & Paco Amoroso a lo largo de las 12 canciones que conforman BAÑO MARÍA.

La música electrónica no es tanto la columna vertebral del disco sino más bien una textura por la que debajo se mueven desde el dembow de “DUMBAI” al pop raver de “SUPERSÓNICO”, o el r&b con base Drum & Bass de “BABY GANGSTA”, o el EDM industrial de “LA QUE PUEDE, PUEDE”. Por encima de esa textura y esas bases, CA7RIEL & PACO AMOROSO entregan melodías y barras que escupen referencias de la cultura pop con el color y el impacto de una bomba de brillantina. Como ya es su sello, pueden jugar al descaro, al amor, al desamor, al beboteo nocturno y la ironía social, a veces todo junto en cuestión de versos. Así transcurre BAÑO MARÍA, como un viaje por las cumbres y los valles de una noche más larga que la luz de la luna.

Si algo le faltaba a CA7RIEL & Paco Amoroso para solidificar una carrera como uno de los dúos más disruptivos de los últimos años, era un disco en conjunto. Ya habían probado su originalidad tanto desde los singles como desde sus shows en vivo e incluso sus discos en solitario (CA7RIEL con EL DISKO y Paco Amoroso con Saeta), y BAÑO MARÍA viene a sumar una pieza más a una obra deforme y en constante desarrollo.

El álbum está conformado por 12 canciones que cuentan con la producción de figuras de renombre en la música actual: Federico Vindver, Vibarco, Gino Borri, Sir Nolan, Carlos Santander, Taiko, Kaylee Ameri, Spread LOF, Pablo Felipe Feliú Martínez, Natalia Marshall, DVLP, “XAY”, “Casta”, “Slowmike” y Miguel Ángel Díaz Vélez fueron parte del armado de los temas. Los feats del disco son las dos grandes estrellas del pop argentino: “SUPERSÓNICO” tiene como invitada a LALI y “AGUA” a TINI (este último se dará a conocer como bonus del disco más adelante). BAÑO MARÍA es un hecho y ya está disponible en todas las plataformas de streaming.

Lista de temas:

1. “BABY GANGSTA”

2. “DUMBAI”

3. “SHEESH”

4. “MI DIOSA”

5. “AGUA” (feat. TINI)

6. “LA QUE PUEDE, PUEDE”

7. “EL ÚNICO”

8. “PIRLO”

9. “VITAMINA”

10. “COSAS RICAS”

11. “SUPERSÓNICO” (feat. LALI)

12. “DIABLO”

Así queda conformado el lanzamiento de BAÑO MARÍA. En acciones anteriores, habíamos escuchado como adelantos “DUMBAI” y  “LA QUE PUEDE, PUEDE”. El anuncio del disco había ocurrido el jueves 14 de marzo cuando dieron a conocer la noticia con un teaser con dirección creativa de Terrivle, que podés ver acá. Al día siguiente hicieron de su presentación en Lollapalooza Argentina una listening party: en lugar de dar un show, su DJ Anita B Queen le dio play al disco mientras CA7RIEL & Paco Amoroso disfrutaban en un jacuzzi y sus amigos colmaron el escenario para bailar y celebrar. Por supuesto, fue una de las performances que más dieron que hablar en todo el festival.

Además, BAÑO MARÍA cuenta con un short film de 10 minutos que se puede ver en YouTube y que fue presentado el martes 9 de abril en el C Complejo Art Media de Chacarita, en exclusiva para sus fans. El cortometraje, con dirección creativa de Terrivle y dirección de Brian Kazez (Pantera) muestra a CA7RIEL & Paco Amoroso en un día completo de gira y bajón por Buenos Aires. En poco más de 10 minutos, se pasean por el inframundo de la noche porteña entre porros, pastillas, alcohol, previas, fiestas, afters, piñas, besos, jacuzzis y baños públicos.

Conformados como un dúo capaz de literalmente cualquier cosa, CA7RIEL & Paco Amoroso delinearon su marca de estilo a partir de una combinación que tiene al trap, el rock y la música electrónica como principales ingredientes pero que puede sumar sonidos de cualquier lado para dar con una estética maximalista, que desde lo visual se complementa con vestuario, videos, imágenes y una performance tan intensa como sus canciones. Una suerte de híper todo en el que conviven pasajes de rock progresivo con imágenes kitsch de la cultura popular. Tapados de animal print, citas a Nirvana, Adriana Aguirre en una pileta, fumar flores con Lamothe, solos de guitarra de corte setentero. Tanto CA7RIEL como Paco Amoroso son capaces de hacer convivir cada una de esas referencias en pocos minutos, con la fluidez de quienes se saben más allá de todo.

En 2019, el dúo irrumpió en la escena sin pedir permiso, y los lanzamientos de “Jala Jala”, “OUKE” y “OLA MINA XD” se convirtieron en éxitos instantáneos al borde de lo bizarro, pero también de lo experimental. Extendiendo el sonido de época hasta los límites de lo imposible, cada nuevo tema explotaba como bombas (cada vez menos) pequeñitas en la nueva escena musical argentina. Jugar en el mainstream con una estética outsider no es algo que le funcione a cualquiera, y ellos lo lograron.

La pandemia y los proyectos solistas pusieron pausa al trabajo en conjunto de ambos, que retomaron en 2022 con más shows y más singles (PAGA DIOS y EN EL AFTER). Este año, entonces, los tiene en actividad y con novedades. El lanzamiento de BAÑO MARÍA, sus singles y su presentación en vivo marcarán la agenda del dúo este año.