Music Goes On
Each Circus Mexicus show ends with the same song, Nada, which is Spanish for “nothing.” The tune has a different energy from rowdy rock, but it’s no ballad either. Nearly every fan sings along until the band stops playing and listens to the crowd sing an entire verse all by itself.
This final song of the night melted into the next day where we motored toward the U.S. boundary with the road reverberating underneath, 100-degree wind whipping through the windows.
The show was over, but half of the road trip remained. A short verse in Nada goes like this:
I see the lightning from a storm down in Mexico. . .I cross the desert Disappear into the tumbleweeds
Those words repeated over and over in my head until just these four muted the others: I cross the desert. Then the road fizzled and the surroundings became parts: heat; granite; creosote; saguaro; palo verde; blackened volcanic rock of the Pinacate lava flow. I cross the desert.
It’s sweltering. Perhaps lizards could liquefy on a Sonoran morning like this. Over and over the words, the sound of the crowd singing, the vision of Clyne and his Peacemakers beaming at one another, tipping drinks, sweating. Just another rock show? I drive on to the international boundary. Rock; sand; tumbleweeds; wind; coyote; border patrol checkpoint. I cross the desert.
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