The following is the fifth in a four-part series examining Carlos Santanaâs album Supernatural. The author of the piece quickly realized four parts were not enough and added a fifth. This, though, is for real the final installment. Seriously. For godâs sake.
I canât really comment on the âLatin-nessâ of Carlos Santana, or the album Supernatural. I have no authority to do so. Iâm just an outsider and an admirer looking in at a culture to which I do not belong. I can say, the song following âMaria Mariaâ SEEMS like the most overt departure from the glitzy, fly-over-state accessible version of Latin music that made this album such a massive commercial monster.
âMigraâ is a protest song driven by thudding drums and chant-singing. It goes back and forth between English and Spanish, and it does so in an interesting way. The gist of the Spanish segment is âfuck you, immigration officers, you hateful fucking horse fuckers,â and the English segment of the song is âhey people, letâs love each other and try to do better.â
They never actually say horse fuckers. Itâs dual signaling and probably snuck by the exact people who wouldâve clutched their pearls over it. Good for you, Carlos Santana. Do your dance. The song itself is actually kind of cool. There are soaring horns in it, and your boy (Ian Karmel) loves soaring horns. I love them. I wish only to float in a hang glider propelled further toward the heavens by soaring horns until Iâm engulfed by the sun and die and then youâll all be sorry.
I will say, though, âMigraâ has a part where whoever is singing goes âChaaaaaaâ a bunch of times in a rowâand it kind of sucks. It feels like youâre watching a Broadway musical from the â80s. Itâs a nitpickâbut baby, Iâm picking it.
The next track is âCorazon Espinado,â and it sounds like the kind of song your dad listens to a bunch after he gets divorced from your mom and starts taking salsa dancing lessons to stay in shape and meet available women. A lot of the songs on this album sound like that.
Iâve listened to this album so many times while trying to write about it, I think I might be too close. Iâm in too deep. I canât tell if I love or hate it or have no concrete opinion. Carlos Santanaâs guitar sounds the same on every goddamn song, Iâll say that. It walks the line between signature style and self-parody. Maybe it doesnât walk that line, but it stumbles clumsily along it.
I canât keep writing about this fucking album. Why did I make myself do this? Why? Maybe I hate myself. Maybe thatâs what it really all comes down to. I promised to finish, though, so here are my short reviews of the remaining songs.
âWishing it Wasââsucks. âEl Farolââgeriatric wet dream. âPrimaveraââno. âThe Callingââuhh. âDay of Celebrationââonly because itâs the last song. All right. There. I fucking did it.
Side Note: After more than four years (what) of writing this column, Iâm taking a brief hiatus to work on a side project for a little bit. In the meantime, my sweet, beautiful friend Hutch Harris is going to be taking over this column. Iâll be back in a couple of months, or never, or something in between. I love you!Â