{"id":163287,"date":"2023-02-16T10:00:17","date_gmt":"2023-02-16T15:00:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=163287"},"modified":"2023-02-16T11:03:46","modified_gmt":"2023-02-16T16:03:46","slug":"love-songs-aguacero","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/02\/16\/love-songs-aguacero\/","title":{"rendered":"Love Songs: \u201cAguacero\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Photograph by Carina del Valle Schorske.<\/p><\/div>\n

This week,<\/em> the<\/em> Review is publishing a series of short reflections on love songs, broadly defined.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

The first time I felt tropical rain was an erotic revelation: I was nine, visiting family in Puerto Rico on a Carnival cruise. At home in California, rain was cold feet and flooded freeways. But on the island, rain came fast and hot, soaked through my cotton dress, then\u2014sliced by sun\u2014revealed a rainbow. Aguacero<\/span>. <\/span><\/i>The revelation was erotic not only for my body (the sound, the feel) but also for my mind: now I knew that something bad could also be good\u2014depending on temperature, timing, timbre. My friend Luis Alba calls tropical rain \u201cthe secret rhythm beneath all our music\u201d\u2014the windy scraping of the guiro, the shifting pebbles of the shekere\u2014but Bad Bunny\u2019s \u201cAguacero\u201d begins with ten seconds of literal downpour. Then, the fuckboy\u2019s serenade: <\/span>me tienes el bicho ansioso.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cAguacero\u201d is not a proper love song. It\u2019s reggaeton lite (smooth production, raunchy lyrics), one of the more predictable tracks on Bad Bunny\u2019s latest blockbuster<\/span>. <\/span><\/i>But I can\u2019t lie about what\u2019s on repeat\u2014in the kitchen, on the beach, on the ride home from his place. As with love songs, so with love: we don\u2019t always desire what we deserve. For a long while\u2014longer than we said we would\u2014I had a lover who was in the middle of a messy divorce. He wouldn\u2019t have me for real, and I wasn\u2019t even sure that\u2019s what I wanted. But I was sick, I was tired, I hadn\u2019t fucked with feeling for several years. So I went ahead in the rain.\u00a0Si el calor es de noventa, el aguacero es de cien<\/i>. The chorus was both invitation and warning:\u00a0if the heat\u2019s at ninety, the downpour\u2019s a hundred<\/i>. This wetness won\u2019t make you less thirsty.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAguacero\u201d wants to keep things light\u2014<\/span>baby dale<\/span><\/i> easy, easy, sabes que soy piscis<\/span><\/i>\u2014with a languid dembow barely fast enough for dancing. But this restraint only intensifies the song\u2019s sensuality, soliciting a slow grind your body might remember from \u201cCool Down the Pace\u201d by Gregory Isaacs or \u201cRock the Boat\u201d by Aaliyah. Bad Bunny comes so close to the mic you can feel the spray of <\/span>s<\/span><\/i>\u2019s in your ear\u2014now he\u2019s Benito. The lyrics, meanwhile, vacillate between ostentatious detachment (<\/span>don\u2019t worry, I won\u2019t say I love you<\/span><\/i>) and ardent romantic roleplay (<\/span>when you want it, I\u2019m your husband<\/span><\/i>). The anxiety confessed in the first line returns to trouble the lovers: she needs a <\/span>doctorate in psychology<\/span><\/i> to understand his intentions, she\u2019s got him <\/span>desquiciado<\/span><\/i>, scrolling through archived messages. Still, he insists on a fundamental equality of purpose between them that I recognize from conversations with my lover\u2014<\/span>yo soy un cuero, y t\u00fa tambi\u00e9n<\/span><\/i>\u2014as if the intense mutuality of sexual desire could serve as a solvent for whatever inequalities emerge down the line. The terms of their arrangement remain unclear, and he seems to like it like that: <\/span>if they ask, say we\u2019re distant cousins.\u00a0<\/span><\/i>My lover was also reluctant to name in public what we couldn’t even name in private; we never found the right line.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s possible to eroticize almost anything, and the quip about distant cousins makes me wince then smile, admitting how I <\/span>did <\/span><\/i>feel a queer kind of kinship with my lover: we were both children of short-lived cross-cultural relationships between bohemians, trying to invent sustainable forms of intimacy from the ruins of the nuclear family. Like Puerto Rico, New York is an island: there\u2019s nowhere to hide from the connections that bring us together even once we\u2019ve turned away. There\u2019s tenderness there, if you\u2019re willing to taste it. <\/span>Yo soy un cuero, y t\u00fa tambi\u00e9n<\/span><\/i>, the men sing, and we dance\u2014but do we all understand the desire that sustains the exchange the same way? The words feel impoverished to me; they do not seem to honor the rich mystery of the mornings he would wake early to touch me in the sun, like I wanted. They\u2019re drowned out by the steady pulse of precipitation that saturates the song. In \u201cAguacero,\u201d there\u2019s a certain tension between words and music, communication and sensation, as if what transpires between bodies encodes a reality that runs counter to our stated expectations\u2014that exceeds them.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Or was the song making things worse, naturalizing arrangements that I struggled to sustain in my everyday life? Was it only, as my mother often warns, perpetuating a patriarchal program that objectifies women, evades emotional responsibility, and ultimately blames us for our confused complicity? <\/span>Qu\u00e9date en cuatro, que se ve precioso. <\/span><\/i>I was reading Annie Ernaux, Gillian Rose, Luisa Capetillo, and Simone White, eager to interrogate my heterosexual pleasures but reluctant to relinquish them completely.<\/span> I texted my lover a passage from Simone White: \u201c<\/span>dancing is not an endorsement of violence but of course it is \/\/\/ \u2026 when dancing i do feel spread out \/ i feel helpless and resent the sense that separating myself from feelings of love and enjoyment for the sake of so-called liberation is fucking us all up.\u201d <\/span>At night I would dance alone in my bedroom and post the videos to my Instagram stories, and if I swiped up\u2014the app had a new feature designed to profit from feminine torment\u2014you could see who\u2019d watched them. I tried not to use it, but I couldn\u2019t forget it was there.<\/span><\/p>\n

When we said goodbye, finally\u2014it was too cold to stand on the street for the time it should have taken\u2014he told me he\u2019d wanted an escape and he thought that was okay. Now he was going home to someone else. In the moment, still bewildered by desire, I lost my will to litigate. But later, back in Puerto Rico, I wondered over the resonance between that word\u2014<\/span>escape<\/span><\/i>\u2014and the touristic desires that develop our shorelines, uproot our mangroves, and slowly turn predictable seasonal storms into unnatural disasters. I know I\u2019m being dramatic, letting my metaphorical imagination run wild. But no person or place can <\/span>be <\/span><\/i>an escape: escape is just the rhythm of the one who\u2019s running.<\/span><\/p>\n

Last night, walking down to the beach in Luquillo, I saw two men with shovels at the mouth of the river that feeds into the sea\u2014or should, because just then it was choked by sand, so the river was rising and flooding their homes. They were trying to dig out the channel, to restore the flow. Their project seemed impossible to me, especially at such a late hour\u2014and wouldn\u2019t the force of the tides always be stronger than the force of the current? But the next morning, I saw they\u2019d opened the channel into a wide delta, and I realized how many times they must have come down to do this work by hand. They had already committed to finding a form that might accommodate the downpour, that might mitigate\u2014if not eliminate\u2014the damage of the deluge.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Carina del Valle Schorske is a literary translator and a contributing writer at <\/em>The New York Times Magazine. Her debut essay collection<\/em>,\u00a0The Other Island,\u00a0is forthcoming from Riverhead.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cSo I went ahead in the rain.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1373,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1187],"tags":[12672,68610,67827,68611,23291,51],"class_list":["post-163287","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-music","tag-affairs","tag-bad-bunny","tag-featured","tag-hurricanes","tag-puerto-rico","tag-rainbows"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nLove Songs: \u201cAguacero\u201d by Carina del Valle Schorske<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"February 16, 2023 \u2013 \u201cSo I went ahead in the rain.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/02\/16\/love-songs-aguacero\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" 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