The Rialto Theatre has been around for almost one hundred years. Initially a prime venue for silent movies and vaudeville shows, it was downtown Tucson's pride and joy, switching hands several times before finally succumbing to the recession of the 1960s and the consequent exodus of human and animal life from Tucson. With no humans (much less animals) to cuddle in the cinema seats, the Rialto fell into disrepair, and eventually became one of those movie theaters that you read about in horror stories - dusty seats no longer imprinted with the fine (or less-than-fine) lines of the viewer's thighs, furniture stacked up and eagerly as a bungee-jumping venue by local spiders, used as a storage space by a nearby shop, which itself was likely owned by a sad man with no clients. Then, in a serendipitous turn of events, somebody had an idea: the Rialto would reopen as El Cine Plaza, initially catering to the Spanish-speaking population of Southern Arizona, but quickly transforming its pitch into the only thing a formerly respectable theater could become: a porn theater. This was in the 1970s - a time when arson was a much more popular form of individual expression than it is now (not counting tires and cars during demonstrations). And so it was, in a beautiful case of moral relativism, that one unhappy housewife embarked on a crusade to bring the words of the song "The Roof Is on Fire" to life. While she failed in her repeated attempts to burn down the house in a vengeful pyre of divine punishment, she did succeed in burning down a staircase - and in true outlaw fashion, was never caught. Today, she's probably happy that the Rialto Theatre, British spelling and all (origin unknown), no longer caters to vile, wretched, ungodly beings like it did before.
Today, the Rialto stands proud and revamped, its resurrection funded by the City of Tucson in a successful attempt to make people realize that it does have a downtown (a fact that, for the longest time, I myself was oblivious to). It stands opposite the Hotel Congress, constructed at the same time, and possibly one of the (externally) least impressive higher-class hotels in this part of the United States. And it audience has changed as well. The Rialto, reopened in 1995 as a non-profit venture, now hosts an impressive array of performers every week, each more famous than the next, and is one of the best places for culture in the Tucson area. (Incidentally, not a single theater in Poland that I am aware of - movie or otherwise - displays its shows or movies on a classic marquee like the one in the picture.) While currently the Downtown area is one big hodgepodge of roadworks - largely dedicated to the insane idea of constructing a purposeless 4.9-mile-long streetcar line for $300 million slicing through the middle of town - the Rialto is accessible, and that's what matters.
Not two weeks ago, I was at the Rialto on a Monday, to see AWOLnation - a group that went viral when BASE jumper Jeb Corliss performed feats of great insanity to the epic, oozing, grinding, quirky, glitchy screams of the lead singer. While AWOLnation were overshadowed by their supporting act, Imagine Dragons (observe the floating man closely), the show was nothing short of spectacular, and the mallets pounding the drums felt like they were using your heart as a xylophone. On that occasion the Rialto was filled with people ranging from Rather Normal to Teenage Dirtbag (not mutually exclusive) to Rebel Without a Cause (also not mutually exclusive), and they were moderately rowdy as the performers convulsed around the stage. The house was packed. On a Monday night, that is both flabbergasting and awe-inspiring.
This time, it was different. Calexico are, first of all, a local band, and possibly the greatest combination of quality and popularity Tucson has to offer. Second, the music is different: far from the synthesizer-amplified indie rock of Imagine Dragons and AWOLnation, Calexico are one of those bands that weave between genres like a contortionist through an obstacle course. An eight-man band whose centerpiece are two long-time members, Calexico does what could be described as desert rock Americana - or frontier rock, or Tex-Mex rock, or what have you. Their members, all multi-instrumentalists, switch between a mariachi trumpet, an electric guitar and an accordion within the space of one song. It is a rock band that includes xylophone and cello in its array of instruments. It is a band whose lead singer carries the dry, rasping voice of the Sonoran desert, a band whose music is steeped in the tradition of Mexican corridos, American Southern rock, a smattering of country music, borderland badland genres like Tejano and cumbia, and well-executed intrusions of jazz, all summing up to a total that has been described as "desert noir". Naturally, I am crazy about them.
The third difference was the audience. This may have been a factor of Friday unofficially being Halloween night, which became readily apparent as a cardboard robot with the word "AWESOME" scrawled on it entered the Rialto Theatre in the company of Evel Knievel. Several Karate Kid-like skeleton were in the audience as well. The second most represented demographic was made up of men with suspiciously long and suspiciously unkempt beards, but generally kempt enough to be viewed more as aging backpackers than homeless. The crowd was also older, more mature, more sophisticated, and the proportion of people wearing glasses was greater - a far cry away from the first concert I went to, at which The Offspring (themselves excellent) were interrupted once or twice by half-naked drunks eager to turn a mosh pit into a battleground for fistfights. Though the alternative crowd was prominently represented, the spectators were as eclectic as the music they came to hear - a testament to Calexico's knack for fusions of all kinds.
The fourth difference was that Tucson is not your regular, run-of-the-mill town to celebrate Halloween. Tucson's Halloween tradition is submerged in Mexican frontier folklore, and heavily draws from the Dia de los Muertos - one of the single most amazing celebrations this world has to offer. This, in effect, means that posters featuring decorated, candied skulls are plastered all over the walls of the town trumpeting the local (and large) All Souls Procession, for which I will be one of the thousands drawn to the heart of Tucson several days from now. Calexico's show was centered around their new album, Algiers, which moves away from the desert sands to the mud-green swamplands of New Orleans and its endemic symbolism of water, water and more water. This meant that, despite the looming Day of the Dead, they did not hang a giant skull above the band members - and perhaps, for their own safety, they were better off that way. And for me, a fifth difference was that I was not alone, but accompanied by a good friend who, much like me, is ready to sacrifice essential sleep time for unique experiences. It makes a difference when you're not awkwardly standing in the middle of the floor, twitching to the music without any company whatsoever.
It is impossible to describe Calexico's show in a few words without succumbing to logorrhea. There is a reason why they attract a dozen different demographics. The concert was introduced by none other than Gabrielle Giffords, the former congresswoman who became even more notable for being shot in the head by a frightening, eyebrowless 22-year-old man in Tucson early last year, and subsequently recovering from her injuries. (It might be pertinent to mention that her husband is spaceman Mark Kelly, who was also present and is himself notable for having commanded the final voyage of the Space Shuttle Endeavor; Giffords, who cites Calexico as her favorite band, chose "Slowness" [or, by some accounts and perhaps less fittingly, the amazing "Crystal Frontier"] as her husband's wake-up song while he was floating around the exosphere.) Calexico rolled into the show with guns blazing. While it would be redundant to describe it song-by-song, it can be said that they are masters of their craft: the crescendos they create are not only within a song, but throughout a string of songs, and they have the unique ability to keep a 10-minute song going without once allowing any hint of boredom to enter as each member showcases his talents. Whether it's blaring mariachi horns whose blarers can do more than one could think would be possible with a trumpet; the shimmering xylophone that underscores much of what they make; the rollicking closer into which Calexico inserted bits and pieces of Manu Chao's "Desaparecido"; the echoing blare of the train that ran as background noise to one of the songs and is such a typical feature of Tucson life; or lead singer Joey Burns' tendency to switch between three guitars within the space of one song, it was a festival of sound, and a beautiful ocean of noise.When the show was over and the feeling of catharsis wasn't showing signs of subsiding, I did what I am never inclined to do and dished out $25 for a t-shirt. I didn't regret it one bit. At midnight, I walked my bike to the Hotel Congress, and as I stood outside it watching Count Dracula trailing behind the Abominable Snowman, I tuned in to a live band playing cumbia - a genre that can't be performed quite as genuinely in most other parts of the United States - in the back patio of the hotel. And at that moment, at the stroke of midnight, I bowed my head, concealed an idiot's grin, and thought to myself that yes - sometimes, frontier life in windswept Tucson is one hell of a life to have.
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