August is the cruelest month. That is the verse that T.S.Eliot did not dare to write and, in his cowardice, he lashed out at April, which, beyond being the month of flowers, contributes nothing to cruelty. August is if you are a fat child, a teenager with a complex, a disoriented adult, a divorcee living with his mother or a bitterness turned into a cinder under a parasol while it sounds anywhere: Tell me where are we going after the beach. If we dry ourselves, I bring the towel. And again we get wet, but in my bed. I'm going to give you a surfboard, baby. It is After the beach. It's Bad Bunny. It is your life in front of a mirror shattering.
Tell me that you play and I play it. Don't leave it for later. The teaching of life, summer to summer, is not the same for everyone. To that question about what game you play, some of us could only answer that nothing, to miss you, to forget you once and for all, or to hope that you will leave your wife, this summer yes, you promised me, miserable. Summer, August, is the month of disappointments almost at the same level as Christmas, and we are crowds but silent, envious and stuffed with television. If we managed to structure a transversal movement of people for whom the imagery of the month of August –beaches, friends, sun, perfect bodies, love, sex, night and music– is a pharaonic neon sign that says: LOSER, I repeat, if we aligned ourselves behind those same acronyms, we could destroy the month of August, the need for songs for an always cruel summer. But we are disunited and we are satisfied with the mere certainty that August also ends and with it, his cruelty. Until next year.
Obviously, Bad Bunny, here is one of those beings who, with a cooler at hand, spend all day on the beach, without getting burned and watching for fishing. Near the beach bar and the night, to dance and straighten the surfboard. His perception of all this is clear and meridian, just as he indicates in the song of yore, pure San Juan de la Cruz: That the light has already left and the night has come. Boom boom boom. Then, he is already more confused, as if he were a butane delivery man with diction problems, that he dares to recite to Góngora: Vamo'pal mambo or no vamo' pa'l mambo? Requiebro in times of
The exhibition of Bad Bunny, of the song of the summer, is always aimed at the ostentation of bodies and sex, showing, without taking into account the immense minority of human beings that will never be desired, neither on a beach nor in a beach bar or a discotheque. There are guys who have to set up a movie, a Formula 1 circuit or be a king to be desired. And millions who don't have money for it. For when the Law of the Ugly, of the Rare, of the Non-Generators of Desire...? In that future and necessary law there should be a section on the month of August, on summer songs, on summer cruelty.
Bad Bunny's song is one of those fairground flying saucers that glow in the dark and end up anywhere, in this case in a beach orgy of people without pedigree. It was a success last summer. But if we stick to the song, there is a board capable of surfing the waves and being a mambo all night, without erectile dysfunction – today yes yes – nor romantic complications – hey, hey, hey, hahaha – because the love filter is already it does not exist for lascivious sex and it is like that, period.
There is a strange moment in all that hedonism when Bad Bunny glimpses that maybe the girl lives in a place where her surfboard cannot reach – Mommy, you live far away – which is strange that Trias did not use in his last electoral campaign against Ada Colau. But Bad Bunny goes all out and offers to go look for her –that is, there is a night bus line, Trias– but not because the object of her lust is intelligent, good or funny. No. He's going to look for it because you're good and you deserve it' (you're rich), and to hide his bodily predatory spirit, he introduces the fish from the sea, oblivious to the song until now (Al frente'l mar es que I want to give you to make them happy (tos lo'pece) almost in an impossible merger attempt between Greenpeace, aquatic trap and popular Christmas carol.
Solved the TN-Nit, she is more than ready (And you are wet) and the male rears up (ready to surf you). The female as the sea –Botticelli wink–, the man as Silver Surfer –Marvel wink–. And, as usually happens, from verses by Catullus and Ovid, after copulation, sadness arrives and "I'll call you", situations that most of us haters of August have not even had the opportunity to give a number. fake phone number to anyone. But on Bad Bunny's beach, the melancholy is hot Red Bull and, immediately, the mess. Bottle on the beach. She has a boyfriend (she thinks she's Romeo and I'm going to do him like Don), then there is talk of an adultery with another maiden in which, as God (Dio') forgave her, now her husband has to forgive her and finally, everything remains to what remains: breaking hearts is fine but I'm waiting for a friend (Stones, 1978), that is, that night, every night, they always play if there are cold beers left.
