Corazon Del Rocanrol

As the crowd files out afterward - punks, ex-hippies, ex-Marxists, kids from the barrios - Lobito is nursing his hand, bleary-eyed in the arms of his girlfriend; Aldo is downing more beer at the bar; Pacho, the only one who played the gig straight, is talking with a small group of fans; Roco is nowhere to be found; Sax is back behind the percussion section, weeping drunkenly into a friend's arms - in a few minutes he'll make a bizarre attempt at taking off his pants and then pass out.

Pacho is understandably irritated; he says this is the first time the band has ever played ripped. Maybe it's all the pressure they've felt for the past six years finally exploding into one cathartic, drunken orgasm. In a few hours Pacho will go to his girlfriend's house to sleep, because that's where he's sure to get a meal.

Tonight, Maldita have fallen apart. Tomorrow they'll wake up, hung over as hell, in the city where rocanrol never quite dies.