Two weeks ago I wrote about wearing a pollera as "cholita punk" and how this felt like an arrival to me.

Yesterday I received an email that feels like a very different kind of arrival: The Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Anthropology is going to publish an article of mine, based on my dissertation research. Details forthcoming as to when it will be published, but rest assured I will put the full citation here when it comes out in print!

In July of 2008, after a long day of dancing to A Hawk and a Hacksaw, Icy Demons, and Animal Collective at the Pitchfork Music Festival, I found myself with some long lost friends at Belmont and Western. I hadn’t seen or talked to Ravi in years. We had dated briefly in college, but more importantly we were student government co-conspirators. He was the director of an umbrella organization for progressive student groups. I was the executive officer for Students Advocating Gender Equality. Together we led protests across campus and Chicago and tried to lobby both student government and the administration to pass resolutions condemning the occupation of Iraq. We never succeeded at that, but the “camp out” we held at the library plaza did eventually get the university to sign onto the Workers’ Rights Consortium Designated Suppliers Program.

So five years after our graduation we sat across a table at The Hungry Brain catching up (he was about to run for a state representative spot in his home district) and waxing nostalgic (with stories one should never share about a political candidate they support).

And the Hungry Brain is a lovely place. Nestled in Roscoe Village, its a cash only dive bar. The type of place I’d normally flock to. And on this particular night there was a jazz trio playing. I’m sure they were playing quite well, but at least in the back corner we occupied our laughter was the overwhelming sound. And the other patrons weren’t so keen on this. We got dirty looks often, and shhhhs a few times, so at the set break we walked around the corner to some 4 am bar that inexplicably had 3 motorcycles parked in the back room.

In the intervening years I’d eventually attend summer outdoor jazz in the park type events or find myself gulping wine at Columbia Station in DC. But last night, I finally stopped into the jazz bar I’ve been walking past for 3 years. I’ve always meant to check it out, but never had a reason. When Joaquin told me he knows Pablo, the owner and suggested we go, I jumped at the chance. Thelonious is promoted as the only jazz bar in Bolivia, though I have no idea how accurate that is. In La Paz it is certainly the most well publicized, but as far as I know there could be some hidden in the back lanes of El Alto, or a thriving jazz community in Santa Cruz. Thelonius, like Hungry Brain and pretty much all bars in La Paz, is cash only. But aside from music, cash, and alcohol, my experience there was very different from the Hungry Brain. 

We arrived around midnight and found Pablo, his girlfriend, and another friend at a table by the door. Having arrived with Joaquin, our Colombian friend Jhon, local electronico DJ Chuck Norris, and his date, we pushed several tables together and joined Pablo and company. The Jack Daniels flowed freely and we discussed race politics in La Paz (in as lighthearted a way as we could). The conversation was filled with that distinctive Paceño laugh-a velar nasal “yaaaaaahhhhhhhh.”

Only at the set break was the music mentioned. Joaquin told me that the bass player (of course) was one of the best in La Paz. He then introduced me to the manager—one of the best jazz drummers in South America. I got plenty of (undeserved) Jazz street credit for being from Chicago. 

And our table was not unique. The overall feeling of the place was lively. People were laughing, and at times cheered and whistled for solos. The occasional drink was spilled without much notice. People danced on their way to the baño and stopped at other tables to chat on their way back. 

In essence, it would have been the perfect place for Ravi and I that night after Pitchfork. And perhaps this is just an isolated example, but to me it felt significant. Here in La Paz music is about enjoyment, having fun, creating an atmosphere for smiling and laughing. In Chicago, home of Green Mill, and Old Town School of Folk Music, its about connoisseurship. And this is no moral judgment on either, but to my untrained ear, I’d rather joke with Colombian Jhonny about Paceños’ laughs than quietly get lost in the beat. 

And to an extent I think this reflects some of the tensions in lucha libre as well. The cholitas luchadoras are there for the laughter, the smiling, the shouts, and raucousness. And luchadores like Edgar understand the importance of the audience, but see their art as something to be appreciated on an elevated level. Again there is no moral judgment here, and I think most artists of whatever sort would prefer to be appreciated for their technical ability and crafting of style—but there are definitely two different approaches to performance at play here.