Cerati

I am not used to think about rock and roll divinities as mortal human beings. They were born to make noise, to rock it out, to inspire, to modernize our souls. And so it always comes as a huge shock when they get struck by the inevitable human plights of illness or death.

Last year, it was the sudden and devastating passing of Luis el Terror Dias, a giant of rock, the grand father of Dominican tuki tuki, a poet, a superb guitar player, and a close friend and guru of some dear friends of mine.

Last week, Ronnie James Dio. If you ever heard Dio's powerful tenor, it was impossible to imagine it ever being subjected to extinction. But today he is no more.

This week we desperately await for good news about Gustavo Cerati, Argentinean singer-songwriter, guitar player, and rock divinity. He suffered a stroke after a concert in Caracas, and is lying in a coma. The most optimist prognosis is plainly awful. Cerati, the consummate Buenos Airean yuppie, the cosmopolitan dandy with a shinning elitist soul, the over-affected tenor, the slick and moody Kierkegaard-look-alike porteño, only 50 years old and so near of being no more.

I would not understand and love Spanish rock as I do without Cerati and Soda Stereo, the band he led from the early 80's to the mid 90's. I would not love rock as I do without Dynamo, Soda Stereo's 1992 masterpiece. Elegance itself would feel empty without Bocanada, Cerati's 1999 awe-inspiring gem.

These moments, argh, they make me feel like a child: I just don't want Cerati to die. I don't want him to be paralyzed or bed-ridden. I want Cerati to blast it out forever. To be eternal. And so I cling. On the verge of prayer.