Long After Midnight at the Niño Bien

“Tango was the soul of the country,” (pg. 46)

“The first thing you need to know is that in the tango, the man controls everything,” (pg. 53)

Long Alter Midnight at the Niño Bien, by Brian Winter… well long after midnight is certainly true. After the first one hundred pages, this book is only relatable on certain levels to what I have experienced in Buenos Aires. It is about a boy, who rather than finding a job, decides to move to Buenos Aires on a whim after graduating college; the narrator and I have our ages in common. He immediately fixates on tango culture, and attempts to learn the dance, makes friends with the local tango legends, and takes lessons from there, but it seems it is really about scoring chicas.

Tango plays an interesting role in the book, and in the culture of the city today, and in many ways it is hard for me to relate to. So far, I have had two noteworthy experiences with tango, the first completely for my benefit, and the second, a secret I unearthed. I was in San Telmo, the oldest neighborhood in Buenos Aires, a surprising combination of gritty and touristy, where some of the best publicized tango milongas are, but where it is likely you’ll get jumped at night. I was eating at an outdoor table in a café, when a couple, my age or younger, brought a boom box, laid down a long piece of cardboard, and began dancing melodramatic tango for tips in the same way kids break dance on the trains in New York. My second noteworthy run in with tango happened when I went to meet a friend of a friend in a bar in Barrio Norte last weekend. We found the bar after asking for directions from three people on the street, and following their incoherent Spanish to a smoky, hole in the wall bar with six tables encircling six men. They were young, also mid-twenties, sweaty and awkward, wearing big black leather jackets and t-shirts, playing two guitars, a stand-up bass, a harmonica and one singing. Young people sitting around drinking Quilmes, smoking, and watching these awkward people play Astor Piazzolla was mesmerizing. An old man came up from the audience and sang, dripping melodrama, and everyone lapped it up.

Tango here is a secret obsession, and a commodity. It is interesting to watch, but even in the secret hole-in the wall, locals only, what are you doing here Americans, places its hard to get over the cheese and the gender roles. And it’s strict, a cult, ruled by an ancient culture, underground, hard to buy into, only inviting as a spectator