It's December 31st. Not only the Netherlands is in a lockdown, Mexico City is also. The center is extinct, all shutters closed and that gives an almost unheimical feeling. So best is just to stay home.

But gosh. If you still have some freedom: why not drive two hours to an orange area? To another state? Like the particularly beautiful San Miguel de Allende, where the cafes and restaurants are just open. There where you really have to take your own responsibility, but where the beers just taste a little better while a three-headed live band rages on stage?

Such a band from which the fun splashes. Such a band that should not have the quality or talent -because that lacks. Such a band where you still do a dance. Such a band that makes the whole café dance to mariachi, to bad party music and go: the Macarena spontaneously buys in. Hardly anyone has forgotten the accompanying dance steps. The only thing that reminds of corona is the waitress's mouthcap on duty.

Everyone in this cafe is here especially for this band.

Feet from the floor

Soon the feet go off the floor. The constantly grinning guitarist gets up and gives away a tap dance show. Two ladies take the stage and do their moves. The cafe's moving. Everyone laughs and experiences happiness on the false tones of the oily trio.

Then a blonde girl climbs up the stage, too. She and I are probably the only blue-eyed people. The only güeros. The only non-Mexicans. She tries to decorate the guitarist with a posh quasi-sexy dance. So far so good: nothing wrong to interfere with the locals, or something.

An hour before midnight, the band pauses. The blonde girl does not doubt, steps on stage and brutally picks up a guitar. The guitarist himself protests for a while, but soon he finds this spontaneous interlude as well. He walks into the cafe with a bottle of tequila. , she kidnapped my guitar, there's nothing I can do about it! But maybe she's really good!”, he grinns, after turning on the amplifiers and the microphone again.

All you gaaaaaiiys

Then it goes wrong. The evening turns into a real nightmare for a short time. My ears and my temper are going to endure it. The American girl wishes 'all you gaaaaiiys' a 'aaawesaaameeee newyeaâh' and hopes that everyone is' ready ''for some real popmusic'. Then she calls for a loud shout 'fuck twen'ytwen'y', 'because it was a fucked-up year, right you gaaaiiys? ' No one's responding. The first two songs are terrible, but still manageable.

As the closing number, she brings Radioheads Creep. Her voice goes through the marrow and bone, she rapes the song without compassion. 'Cause I am a creeeheeeheeeeeheeeheheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeieieheiehieerdoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo'. She does not cover Radiohead, but seems to want to showcase her singing skills. Her timbre. Her voting capabilities. As if she also had to convince talented people like Ali B and Lil' Kleine by elevating extreme position to art. It is odious, really all in my body and mind protests fiercely. “Sing with me gaaaiiys!”, she calls. No one sings along. No one protests either; the Mexican is civilized, loyal and undergoes this terrible low out of some kind of respect for the girl. They probably don't even understand her.

Yanks

Ah, Americans. Center of the world. Convinced of their own talent, convinced of their superiority, convinced that everyone is waiting for them. It may be a form of discrimination, but the girl embodies 'the American', which I simply sincerely have more than a problem with.

I can't take it anymore and walk upstairs, where there's a rooftop bar. It's cold. A waitress with a fat coat on comes to me and asks me how she can help me. I'll explain to her that I'm here for a moment out of pure annoyance. She sees my tormented face, makes a “wait a minute” signal with a finger and takes two steps down, listens for a moment, and then looks at me grinning and full of disgust. ,, I feel you. The real band starts again every moment. Just wait here.”

Heeeyyyy youuuuu ggaaaayyyiiissss!11