Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Anarchism's Last Stand
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 6
June 23 - 29, 2006
Hookers. Drugs. Dark alleyways glimmering with leftover rain. Slowly shifting shadows. Tight old streets with too much happening. A man walks by with a fresh black eye swelling up on his face. Maybe he’s been there. Another man passes, skinny and gaunt like characters in a Kirchner painting. Dark clothing, dirty skin, and sunken eyes stumbling past. Welcome to the dark side. Only a few steps from the junkies and it’s time to take a right. I've been told I can find who I’m looking for here. From the looks of things, they didn’t lie. Calle de Robadors must be named so for a reason. Empty pockets. Head up, eyes down. At number 25, the black sheep of the political world. Total darkness. The complete unknown. People that never got any mention in the textbooks. Not in guiriland at least. But I’m not in Kansas anymore. I’m on the dark side of El Raval . . . hunting anarchists.
I’ve walked by buildings with the anarchist “A” spray-painted all over. They were the same buildings with the devastated entrances, broken windows, mutilated mannequins posed in balconies, skeletons hanging from walls. A friend said, “Okupas,” I drew a blank. The idea of Anarchism for me simply doesn’t wash. And after two years in the city, my idea isn’t much clearer. I’ve seen them, their dogs, their big boots, their mohawks. Who are these people? Hence the bar.
The metal grate is half down, covering everything save a sticker promising any fascists in the vicinity a pair of hostias. So much for nonviolence. I bend down to see a motley crew of hombres on a motley crew of sofas but when I knock on the dirty glass, they think I’m mistaken. Another knock gets me into a well-lit (what happened to the dark side?), crowded and dirty (that’s more like it) medium-sized room. There’s one table I expected to see; full of those big black boots, mohawks and shaved heads, black mesh shirts over black bras. Anarchist sexuality. Weird. But it turns out they occupy nothing. They pay rent. I feel cheated. The other tables are “normal.”
What’s the deal? This is the lightest “dark” place I’ve ever been. The street outside is more intimidating. Then I start to read the walls. They are enlightening. Posters, flyers, framed pictures, amateur art, and printouts are everywhere. Free wall space is covered with writing. The law is a spider-web that traps the flies and lets the birds pass through. The picture above the basic kitchen-counter-of-a-bar is of the Catalan police, Mossos d’Esquadra but the “M” has been changed to a “G” making them “Dogs d’Esquadra.” Up high near the ceiling: Prison is daily murder. Another poster speaks pure Anarchism, Better drugged than organized, and when you think about all the bad that’s been done thanks to consolidated power, it makes some sense. In the bathroom (which is not for the faint of heart) there is a keeper scrawled in permanent marker: If at any moment you find yourself on the side of the majority, it’s time to reflect.
At it’s worst this place is dim, not dark. It’s like a frat house with a political conscience and no elitism. It’s stimulating, borderline inspirational. But it ain’t clean. If you're a clean freak, this is one of the darker places you could go. But if you’re a liberal, transplanted guiri you’ll like it. But get your dark fix back in the street.
Issue # 6
June 23 - 29, 2006
Hookers. Drugs. Dark alleyways glimmering with leftover rain. Slowly shifting shadows. Tight old streets with too much happening. A man walks by with a fresh black eye swelling up on his face. Maybe he’s been there. Another man passes, skinny and gaunt like characters in a Kirchner painting. Dark clothing, dirty skin, and sunken eyes stumbling past. Welcome to the dark side. Only a few steps from the junkies and it’s time to take a right. I've been told I can find who I’m looking for here. From the looks of things, they didn’t lie. Calle de Robadors must be named so for a reason. Empty pockets. Head up, eyes down. At number 25, the black sheep of the political world. Total darkness. The complete unknown. People that never got any mention in the textbooks. Not in guiriland at least. But I’m not in Kansas anymore. I’m on the dark side of El Raval . . . hunting anarchists.
I’ve walked by buildings with the anarchist “A” spray-painted all over. They were the same buildings with the devastated entrances, broken windows, mutilated mannequins posed in balconies, skeletons hanging from walls. A friend said, “Okupas,” I drew a blank. The idea of Anarchism for me simply doesn’t wash. And after two years in the city, my idea isn’t much clearer. I’ve seen them, their dogs, their big boots, their mohawks. Who are these people? Hence the bar.
The metal grate is half down, covering everything save a sticker promising any fascists in the vicinity a pair of hostias. So much for nonviolence. I bend down to see a motley crew of hombres on a motley crew of sofas but when I knock on the dirty glass, they think I’m mistaken. Another knock gets me into a well-lit (what happened to the dark side?), crowded and dirty (that’s more like it) medium-sized room. There’s one table I expected to see; full of those big black boots, mohawks and shaved heads, black mesh shirts over black bras. Anarchist sexuality. Weird. But it turns out they occupy nothing. They pay rent. I feel cheated. The other tables are “normal.”
What’s the deal? This is the lightest “dark” place I’ve ever been. The street outside is more intimidating. Then I start to read the walls. They are enlightening. Posters, flyers, framed pictures, amateur art, and printouts are everywhere. Free wall space is covered with writing. The law is a spider-web that traps the flies and lets the birds pass through. The picture above the basic kitchen-counter-of-a-bar is of the Catalan police, Mossos d’Esquadra but the “M” has been changed to a “G” making them “Dogs d’Esquadra.” Up high near the ceiling: Prison is daily murder. Another poster speaks pure Anarchism, Better drugged than organized, and when you think about all the bad that’s been done thanks to consolidated power, it makes some sense. In the bathroom (which is not for the faint of heart) there is a keeper scrawled in permanent marker: If at any moment you find yourself on the side of the majority, it’s time to reflect.
At it’s worst this place is dim, not dark. It’s like a frat house with a political conscience and no elitism. It’s stimulating, borderline inspirational. But it ain’t clean. If you're a clean freak, this is one of the darker places you could go. But if you’re a liberal, transplanted guiri you’ll like it. But get your dark fix back in the street.
El Poble Parla (Our "Hardly-Scientific" Poll)
As commercial advertising around Barcelona gets overshadowed by two small dos-letter words, SI and NO, political booths from nearly every party are put up on Las Ramblas. Gisele and her little white bunny rabbit may still reign over Via Laetana, but she can hardly compete with hundreds of triangular structures wrapped around countless light posts that read “space reserved for political propaganda.” The time has finally arrived to vote on the famous, 27-years-in-the-making Estatut de Catalunya. So BCN WEEK asked the people. Hola people. Are you ready to accept the version of the Estatut the government, under Zapatero (“zeta pe”) and his PSOE party, sent back looking like panBimbo with no crust? Or, are you Catalans indignant, unsatisfied, and willing to fight another 27 years for those clauses Madrid cut out? What’s it going to be? SI or NO?
In our poll of 20 Spanish citizens of voting age, 12 felt that the Estatut would be a positive step forward for Catalunya and told BCN WEEK they are going to vote YES. Only one of them said he would vote NO, and two more voters remain undecided. Of course, that leaves five voters unaccounted for. These five told us, in one way or another, that they wouldn’t be voting. A few of their reasons included: “I don’t know what it’s about. When is it?”; “All politicians are mangis, mafiosos, chorizos... like in Marbella”; “I don’t think I’ll vote. The truth is it falls on Sunday and on Sundays no suelo hacer nada”; and, “I suppose not because I haven’t read it.”
That last reason brings us to another interesting question. Have you actually read the Estatut? Of those polled, a fat 12 haven’t read any of it. That’s more than half. Only one of the other eight citizens interviewed claimed to have read more than 30% of the document. A common response to the question from the other seven was, “por encima.”That basically means, “I glanced at it,” which we take to mean, “Not really.”
That aside, it seems the significant majority of those planning to vote are going to vote YES. Will YES be the clear winner? Not so fast PSOE!! While you and your Estatut have won the majority of votes in our little poll, there is one thing working against you. No, it’s not the fact that almost everyone thinks your propaganda is “false”, “pesada”, “ugly”, “attack[ing]”, or, “like an ad for laundry detergent.” But what really might foil your plans is the fact that of the 20 constituents interviewed, half didn’t know the voting date. They might be planning on voting YES, but if they show up late, it isn’t gonna help you much. Try less attacking and more educating.
And lastly, it occured to us that guirismight care to share their opinions on the Estatut. However, finding guiris who know about this historic legislation is like finding a thin person in Ohio. Get lookin’! After receiving a “what are they doing?”, a “huh?” or two, and a “Fuck! I don’t know”, we finally found a couple of transplanted foreigners who felt the Estatut would affect them. How? The guiris who’ve assimilated into the system here will face a proliferation of the Catalan language. More and more universities and other institutions will be operating in Catalan. So on June 18th, if the real citizens vote yes, we guiris will have to ask ourselves, “Parlem catala?”
In our poll of 20 Spanish citizens of voting age, 12 felt that the Estatut would be a positive step forward for Catalunya and told BCN WEEK they are going to vote YES. Only one of them said he would vote NO, and two more voters remain undecided. Of course, that leaves five voters unaccounted for. These five told us, in one way or another, that they wouldn’t be voting. A few of their reasons included: “I don’t know what it’s about. When is it?”; “All politicians are mangis, mafiosos, chorizos... like in Marbella”; “I don’t think I’ll vote. The truth is it falls on Sunday and on Sundays no suelo hacer nada”; and, “I suppose not because I haven’t read it.”
That last reason brings us to another interesting question. Have you actually read the Estatut? Of those polled, a fat 12 haven’t read any of it. That’s more than half. Only one of the other eight citizens interviewed claimed to have read more than 30% of the document. A common response to the question from the other seven was, “por encima.”That basically means, “I glanced at it,” which we take to mean, “Not really.”
That aside, it seems the significant majority of those planning to vote are going to vote YES. Will YES be the clear winner? Not so fast PSOE!! While you and your Estatut have won the majority of votes in our little poll, there is one thing working against you. No, it’s not the fact that almost everyone thinks your propaganda is “false”, “pesada”, “ugly”, “attack[ing]”, or, “like an ad for laundry detergent.” But what really might foil your plans is the fact that of the 20 constituents interviewed, half didn’t know the voting date. They might be planning on voting YES, but if they show up late, it isn’t gonna help you much. Try less attacking and more educating.
And lastly, it occured to us that guirismight care to share their opinions on the Estatut. However, finding guiris who know about this historic legislation is like finding a thin person in Ohio. Get lookin’! After receiving a “what are they doing?”, a “huh?” or two, and a “Fuck! I don’t know”, we finally found a couple of transplanted foreigners who felt the Estatut would affect them. How? The guiris who’ve assimilated into the system here will face a proliferation of the Catalan language. More and more universities and other institutions will be operating in Catalan. So on June 18th, if the real citizens vote yes, we guiris will have to ask ourselves, “Parlem catala?”
DJ Spinna (Review - June 1st, 2006)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue #4
June 9 - 15, 2006
After work I dragged my ass out of the train in Plaza Catalunya and down Portal d’Angel, crossed
Layetana, past the Spar mini-market on Sant Pere Mes Alt and walked on home to the worst possible thing awaiting a tired Barcelonian after a long day of work... a friend visiting on vacation. “Yo son I’m Theo Shasta let’s go out!” And out we go. After a red bull-like substance and a brief run-in with the gestapo-like Sala Apolo security force (“Somebody get this a guy a neck”), we climbed the stairs to the sweet sonido of DJ Spinna. There are a couple of tracks by Spinna in my iTunes but I’m far from an expert. So I ask my aformentioned friend and virtual hip-hop encyclopedia: “Yo, son, now that you got me out the house, what’s the deal with this Spinna?” As it turns out, in the mid to late 90’s, Spinna was one of the kings of the White Label Brooklyn 12-inch scene — producing classic cuts and remixes for artists like De La Soul, Les Nubians, Eminemand his own group, The Jig Mastas. While his production remains some of the most soulful in hip-hop, he’s now known for his house and dance music mixes and his Stevie Wonder parties in NYC, which are apparently the shiz-natto-BAM! — and quite difficult to get into.
I’m accustomed to the Apolo during a rap show (half full and clustered near the stage). However, last Thurday night dancing people were spread everywhere and evenly from bar to stage. It was all ass shaking, hip gyrating, arm gesturing, hand waving craziness. Spinna kept at it for more than two hours, dreads swinging, cutting and changing rhythms. He murdered it with a hip-hop classics section — laced, like the entire show, with soul, soul, soul. According to my visiting guest/ human encyclopedia, free soul is what he’s been about for a decade. “Soul, funk, dancing and not giving a fuck. He did whatever the fuck he felt like doing at the time. Everything he did he was good at.”
Issue #4
June 9 - 15, 2006
After work I dragged my ass out of the train in Plaza Catalunya and down Portal d’Angel, crossed
Layetana, past the Spar mini-market on Sant Pere Mes Alt and walked on home to the worst possible thing awaiting a tired Barcelonian after a long day of work... a friend visiting on vacation. “Yo son I’m Theo Shasta let’s go out!” And out we go. After a red bull-like substance and a brief run-in with the gestapo-like Sala Apolo security force (“Somebody get this a guy a neck”), we climbed the stairs to the sweet sonido of DJ Spinna. There are a couple of tracks by Spinna in my iTunes but I’m far from an expert. So I ask my aformentioned friend and virtual hip-hop encyclopedia: “Yo, son, now that you got me out the house, what’s the deal with this Spinna?” As it turns out, in the mid to late 90’s, Spinna was one of the kings of the White Label Brooklyn 12-inch scene — producing classic cuts and remixes for artists like De La Soul, Les Nubians, Eminemand his own group, The Jig Mastas. While his production remains some of the most soulful in hip-hop, he’s now known for his house and dance music mixes and his Stevie Wonder parties in NYC, which are apparently the shiz-natto-BAM! — and quite difficult to get into.
I’m accustomed to the Apolo during a rap show (half full and clustered near the stage). However, last Thurday night dancing people were spread everywhere and evenly from bar to stage. It was all ass shaking, hip gyrating, arm gesturing, hand waving craziness. Spinna kept at it for more than two hours, dreads swinging, cutting and changing rhythms. He murdered it with a hip-hop classics section — laced, like the entire show, with soul, soul, soul. According to my visiting guest/ human encyclopedia, free soul is what he’s been about for a decade. “Soul, funk, dancing and not giving a fuck. He did whatever the fuck he felt like doing at the time. Everything he did he was good at.”
KRS-ONE (Review May 22nd, 2006)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue #2
May 26 - June 1, 2006
“This is a mic check. Check,check one . ..check one ...one,one,one,one.” What happened to two? Three? If you were waiting for the “two”last Sunday in the Apolo, you walked home disappointed. There was only One. There is only one KRS-One. For those who don’t know nada about hip-hop, KRS-One is one of her godfathers. Known as “the teacher” and most often criticized as too much of a preacher, his influence on hip-hop is unquestionable. KRS, as a part of Boogie Down Productions, built a forceful career on aggressive, socially pertinent lyrics for the people and similarly hard-hitting beats from his friend and DJ Scott La Rock, shot to death in 1987 while trying to stop a fight. KRS’s political lyrics have always kept him out of the mainstream and when he emphasized “Fuck MTV!” at the end of a verse last Sunday night, underground hip-hop heads in the house didn’t hesitate to cheer. A “fuck George W.Bush” was also warmly received.
Even without a presence in mainstream music culture, this One rapper has achieved fame and respect working with impressive energy to make himself, his music, and his message known.That’s what stood out Sunday night: energy. The Apolo wasn’t sold out; wasn’t filled to the brim. Hip-hop shows that are filled are rare here in Barcelona. But the crowd lacked for nothing when KRS hit the stage with several of his best known songs as starters including “MC’s Act Like They Don’t Know,” “South Bronx,” and what seems to be a worldwide favorite,“Sound of the Police.” Using the delicate art of MCing which, within hip-hop culture has about forty different meanings, perhaps the most important of which is Move the Crowd, KRS kept hands waving in the air (like they just didn’t care) and bodies jumping to the beat. The Apolo was infused with the unmistakable hip-hop energy unique to good hip-hop shows. And when he called local break-dancers to the stage (with the help of a Spanish translator, an idea that has never occurred to the other famous rappers that have played either the Apolo or Razzmatazz) his dedication to the street, and to the people was apparent. Later he called for beat boxers and two rose to the challenge. It was dope, impressive and inspiring to see breakers and boxers on stage doing their thing alongside one of the padres of the culture we adore. The end of the concert lagged a little, as KRS seemed to tire and complained about the sound equipment, lack of bass, and mic levels, but overall it was buenisimo. So,thanks for the show KRS, and thanks for teaching. And in the words of the late Sublime guitarist, Bradley Nowell,“In school they never taught ‘bout hamburgers or steak, Elijah, Mohammed or the Welfare State ... but I know ...and I know because of KRS-One.”
Issue #2
May 26 - June 1, 2006
“This is a mic check. Check,check one . ..check one ...one,one,one,one.” What happened to two? Three? If you were waiting for the “two”last Sunday in the Apolo, you walked home disappointed. There was only One. There is only one KRS-One. For those who don’t know nada about hip-hop, KRS-One is one of her godfathers. Known as “the teacher” and most often criticized as too much of a preacher, his influence on hip-hop is unquestionable. KRS, as a part of Boogie Down Productions, built a forceful career on aggressive, socially pertinent lyrics for the people and similarly hard-hitting beats from his friend and DJ Scott La Rock, shot to death in 1987 while trying to stop a fight. KRS’s political lyrics have always kept him out of the mainstream and when he emphasized “Fuck MTV!” at the end of a verse last Sunday night, underground hip-hop heads in the house didn’t hesitate to cheer. A “fuck George W.Bush” was also warmly received.
Even without a presence in mainstream music culture, this One rapper has achieved fame and respect working with impressive energy to make himself, his music, and his message known.That’s what stood out Sunday night: energy. The Apolo wasn’t sold out; wasn’t filled to the brim. Hip-hop shows that are filled are rare here in Barcelona. But the crowd lacked for nothing when KRS hit the stage with several of his best known songs as starters including “MC’s Act Like They Don’t Know,” “South Bronx,” and what seems to be a worldwide favorite,“Sound of the Police.” Using the delicate art of MCing which, within hip-hop culture has about forty different meanings, perhaps the most important of which is Move the Crowd, KRS kept hands waving in the air (like they just didn’t care) and bodies jumping to the beat. The Apolo was infused with the unmistakable hip-hop energy unique to good hip-hop shows. And when he called local break-dancers to the stage (with the help of a Spanish translator, an idea that has never occurred to the other famous rappers that have played either the Apolo or Razzmatazz) his dedication to the street, and to the people was apparent. Later he called for beat boxers and two rose to the challenge. It was dope, impressive and inspiring to see breakers and boxers on stage doing their thing alongside one of the padres of the culture we adore. The end of the concert lagged a little, as KRS seemed to tire and complained about the sound equipment, lack of bass, and mic levels, but overall it was buenisimo. So,thanks for the show KRS, and thanks for teaching. And in the words of the late Sublime guitarist, Bradley Nowell,“In school they never taught ‘bout hamburgers or steak, Elijah, Mohammed or the Welfare State ... but I know ...and I know because of KRS-One.”
Me Han Robado
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue #1
May 19 - 25, 2006
Kool G Rap once rapped, “Look behind you when you walk. That’s how it is, in the streets of New York.” Any New Yorker will tell you that mucho has changed in the Big Apple since Kool G first spit those lyrics. Many of them will reference former mayor Rudy Giuliani, known for cleaning up the city. Not many, however, are sure how, exactly, he did it. Isinuation spread. Giuliani had the homeless people, theives and trouble-makers liquified. Here in Barcelona, one might prescribe the same medicine for a similar problem, crime. No no, not violent crime. Theft in Barcelona is rampant. Within an hour of entering the police station on Nou de la Rambla I had already interviewed 12 different people with much the same story.
First, two young Swedish girls in town to finish their school project, a documentary on skateboarding. Their camera disappeared quickly from under their legs near MACBA, where any self-respecting skateboard-documentary-maker simply must be. Witnesses? Many. Help? None. Police? Bored.
Next, the Dutch girl, feeling utterlyteleurgesteld (I’m sorry, what@!#?) after her camera and bag were smoothly lifted while she was taking pictures of Barca fans celebrating at the fountain of Canaletas. Witnesses? Somewhere in the thousands. Help? Unlikely. Police? Pessimistic.
Third, an older woman from London, walking with her husband when a car pulled in front and two boys came from behind to snatch the bag containing money and some green tickets for some tourist something. How she felt in one word? “Very bad.” Witnesses? As many as are on Las Ramblas at any given moment. Shouts for help? Ignored. Police? Sigue igual, tio. Otro guiri, otro dia.
Fourth, a lovely Irish woman robbed while buying an ice cream (For the love of God! That is going too far!! Ice cream is supposed to be a pure thing, for children and summers and smiles!!! How dare they!?) She cried telling me the story. She was lovely.
All the stories collected there in the police station share several facts. Witnesses were always plentiful. Help was always non-existent. The police listened and questioned with passionless reason, the kind that reflects hopelessness, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. Oh wait. . .it does!
So what can be done? We could, I thought, follow the Giuliani model. So, I asked a friend whom I consider a real New Yorker his thoughts on how Giuliani achieved his goal. He responded, “he cleaned up NY by shutting down all the porno shops and increasing fines for public behavior i.e. drinking in the street, smoking pot, etc. He also instituted laws allowing police to arrest anyone for anything and. . .if they couldn’t find something to lock up a bum (homeless person) for, he instituted a law that stated that one had to have identification or at least a dollar in one’s pocket, or face incarceration for vagrancy. Dude was a scumbag. All NYers know it.”
Oh.
I just don’t see that solution working for Barcelona anyway.Taking sexuality out of the culture. Prohibiting people from having a drink outside, rolling un porro. Nearly forcing them to desire, work for, or at least have the almighty dollar in their pockets.
It all sounds too. . .American.
Maybe we should just listen to Kool G Rap and start “look[ing] behind [us] when [we] walk. That’s how it is, in the streets of [Barcelona].”
Issue #1
May 19 - 25, 2006
Kool G Rap once rapped, “Look behind you when you walk. That’s how it is, in the streets of New York.” Any New Yorker will tell you that mucho has changed in the Big Apple since Kool G first spit those lyrics. Many of them will reference former mayor Rudy Giuliani, known for cleaning up the city. Not many, however, are sure how, exactly, he did it. Isinuation spread. Giuliani had the homeless people, theives and trouble-makers liquified. Here in Barcelona, one might prescribe the same medicine for a similar problem, crime. No no, not violent crime. Theft in Barcelona is rampant. Within an hour of entering the police station on Nou de la Rambla I had already interviewed 12 different people with much the same story.
First, two young Swedish girls in town to finish their school project, a documentary on skateboarding. Their camera disappeared quickly from under their legs near MACBA, where any self-respecting skateboard-documentary-maker simply must be. Witnesses? Many. Help? None. Police? Bored.
Next, the Dutch girl, feeling utterlyteleurgesteld (I’m sorry, what@!#?) after her camera and bag were smoothly lifted while she was taking pictures of Barca fans celebrating at the fountain of Canaletas. Witnesses? Somewhere in the thousands. Help? Unlikely. Police? Pessimistic.
Third, an older woman from London, walking with her husband when a car pulled in front and two boys came from behind to snatch the bag containing money and some green tickets for some tourist something. How she felt in one word? “Very bad.” Witnesses? As many as are on Las Ramblas at any given moment. Shouts for help? Ignored. Police? Sigue igual, tio. Otro guiri, otro dia.
Fourth, a lovely Irish woman robbed while buying an ice cream (For the love of God! That is going too far!! Ice cream is supposed to be a pure thing, for children and summers and smiles!!! How dare they!?) She cried telling me the story. She was lovely.
All the stories collected there in the police station share several facts. Witnesses were always plentiful. Help was always non-existent. The police listened and questioned with passionless reason, the kind that reflects hopelessness, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. Oh wait. . .it does!
So what can be done? We could, I thought, follow the Giuliani model. So, I asked a friend whom I consider a real New Yorker his thoughts on how Giuliani achieved his goal. He responded, “he cleaned up NY by shutting down all the porno shops and increasing fines for public behavior i.e. drinking in the street, smoking pot, etc. He also instituted laws allowing police to arrest anyone for anything and. . .if they couldn’t find something to lock up a bum (homeless person) for, he instituted a law that stated that one had to have identification or at least a dollar in one’s pocket, or face incarceration for vagrancy. Dude was a scumbag. All NYers know it.”
Oh.
I just don’t see that solution working for Barcelona anyway.Taking sexuality out of the culture. Prohibiting people from having a drink outside, rolling un porro. Nearly forcing them to desire, work for, or at least have the almighty dollar in their pockets.
It all sounds too. . .American.
Maybe we should just listen to Kool G Rap and start “look[ing] behind [us] when [we] walk. That’s how it is, in the streets of [Barcelona].”
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