It is true, I cannot dance to this--not tango, at least, although maybe someone else could. The music has wrapped itself in a new sound for a new generation, and the impulse of the press of bodies around me is vertical rather than horizontal. But I think there is still tango in its soul; still the sorrow, the anger, the fierce surge of joy--the raw, throbbing heart of the city. The grit and the dirt and the sweat, and the moment of perfect clear light. The wail of the bandoneon as the musician breaks its back over his knee. This, I think, has not changed.
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