By Jacob Katel
By Karli Evans
By Jose D. Duran
By Pablo Chacon Alvarez
By Kat Bein
By Abel Folgar
By Laurie Charles
People in Buenos Aires protest that the world never gives Argentines credit for their inventions: the radio, the bus, the ballpoint pen. Charly Alberti, retired drummer of South American pop phenomenon Soda Stereo, has a hi-tech version of an old complaint. He claims the Swiss watch company Swatch ripped off his idea for Internet standard time, the atomically set global clock he calls "i-time."
"People tell me I've lost millions of dollars because of this," the 38-year-old musician observes stoically in the shade of an umbrella at the Van Dyke Café on Lincoln Road, "but I say I bought experience at a really high price. Never send out a business proposal by fax." Despite expensive litigation Alberti remains enthusiastic about his invention. "i-time is the perfect hour," he says, "because it's nobody's time."
In practical terms i-time facilitates the synchronization around the globe of real-time computer activities such as chats and Webcasts. For the platinum-and-gray-shocked veteran of Soda Stereo, a world without time zones has an additional appeal. Between 1981 and 1997, the guitar-bass-drum trio moved more records and sold more concert tickets than any other outfit in Latin-American history. The band barely registered a blip, however, in the sonic consciousness of the pop-music superpower at the opposite end of the Western Hemisphere. As a borderless medium, the Internet levels the geography of culture and puts the rocker-cum-dot.com-entrepreneur on a global stage.
I first met Alberti late one night during the subequatorial winter of 1991, at the Buenos Aires club Bajo Tierra. Soda had just finished one in a series of fourteen record-breaking sold-out concerts at the historic Rex Theater. Earlier that same year, the group had broken another national record with an outdoor gig that attracted 250,000 fans. The cover of a local zine gushed, "Soda Won't Stop." An awed circle of models, artists, and writers kept a respectful distance while Alberti unwound. Although I had never heard of the drummer or his band while in the United States, a friend introduced me to the solitary figure bellied up to the bar with the air of privilege usually reserved for the presentation of kings -- or rock stars.
Indeed Soda Stereo's aural trajectory says much about the evolution of rock music itself; its discography describes a trend time line, which registers the same currents running through Argentina as in the United States. Formed toward the tail end of Argentina's final military regime in 1983, Soda Stereo blew up toe-tapping bubble-gum pop for an audience eager to be entertained after a long period of political repression. By 1991, however, the band had matured into a darker sound, winning critical acclaim throughout the Americas for its 1990 album Canción Animal(Animal Song). The disc's feel-good anthem "Light Music," which gets much of its kick from guitar riffs that swing between Rick Springfield and Boston, declares, "Nothing will liberate us from that love of light music. There is nothing else." Nevertheless the eerie guitars on the title track carve out a desert soundscape pierced by synthesized animal wails. The lyrics confess a less-than-innocent passion: "Words are useless. Moaning is better when the body can't wait for that thing called love."
As the recently released compilation Serie 2000 Soda Stereo demonstrates, the rockers found an increasingly electronic sound in the Nineties. On "She Uses My Head as a Revolver," from 1995's Sueño Stereo, the driving guitars are only an occasional accent cutting through lush harmonies of synthesized strings and wind.
The band's final electronic leap suggests that in the age of the Internet, old rockers don't die; they go digital. Alberti went from playing around with drum sequencing and sampling to founding his own e-corporation, Cybrel Digital Entertainment. Transmitted by Cybrel in 1997, the farewell concert of Soda Stereo at the Buenos Aires River Plate Stadium still claims to be the world's biggest Webcast, with 180,000 simultaneous connections.
The only Latin American selected by Apple computers for the company's promotional club of 60-some digital wizards feted as Apple Masters, Alberti is a pioneer on a continent where the expansion of the Internet is estimated by the financial analysts of the Garner Group to generate more than $600 million in revenue over the next two years. Eager to ride that boom, Cybrel provides consulting, Web design, and Webcasting services for the South American operations of clients such as Apple, Fox, Volkswagen, Telecom, and Microsoft.
A trip to the company's Website, cybrel.com, is like falling into a bath of e-commerce. A soul-soothing minimalist soundtrack accompanies spare white bubbles of information that skitter across a cool blue screen. With endearing Spanish-inflected grammar, the English-language version boasts of Cybrel's accomplishments with text that floats to the surface like a new-age Magic 8 Ball: the world's biggest Webcast in 1997; i-time in 1998; and the largest Spanish-language music portal in 1999.
"Within two months we became one of the most visited of all Latin-American sites, with 800,000 hits a day," Alberti enthuses as he pushes his latest offering, his new music Website yeyeye.com. The tattooed e-CEO adds, "And that was without anyone knowing that I'm behind it!" In the ether of cyberspace, such claims can be hard to evaluate, let alone believe. The recent bursting of the technology-stock bubble brings that smoke-and-mirrors point home to Latin America, where even the entertainment giant Starmedia, also based in Argentina, lost more than one-third of its stock-market value as investors re-evaluated the future of e-commerce. "There's a lot of Internet opportunists out there," Alberti admits, suggesting Cybrel will not go public, "but I'm not building this company to sell it. I'm not interested in being any more famous than I already was."