Necessity makes granny trot by Jean Fajean
In the past century Tangoland and, in some measure, in the first years of this one, the tango milieu has been setting a great store by the " venerable old man", insomuch that the "milonguero viejo" has suddenly become a steady professional figure. I don't refer to love and admiration we spontaneously give somebody who has been wrong for longer than us; i refer to the credit we granted to the mistakes, the odds and ends, the junk that these long-lived people tried to sell us as "the tradition". Luckily for them, nothing is incredible in matter of tango, not even my remarks about this never-ending mob.

La fiesta de los monstruos by Alan Pauls
The literary case of the year, at least in my block, where i've been the only one to buy this big book boldly entitled "Borges". It is a diary by Adolfo Bioy Casares, the great argentine writer's pal and great argentine writer himself. Great and furious in taking notes, according to the 1664 pages in which he transcribed, mostly word by word, forty years of daily conversations. Of course, the book has provoked some reactions among the writers, and not all cold i may say, especially among the ones still living. It is the review's well-known nuisance. Here follows the article by Alan Pauls, another argentine writer who distinguished himself on the matter by the clearness, the balance and the precision he bludegeoned back with.

Security ain't what it used to be by Louis-Ferdinand Céline
It's a bad sign if we have to resort to Céline, or to the most powerful verbal machine who ever drew up against the establishment. On the other hand, this is no time for good signs, miracles and enchantments. The "divine security", the sugar of the world, can't go on covering the sludge. The account is wrong, it's always wrong in economy. The host always reckons without the hungry.

The worst soprano in the world by Patricio Lennard
In Buenos Aires, there is a tango singer who is famous for his prodigious false notes. Let's call him Gomez, even if he gave himself a much more conspicuos tango name. Having i listened him singing only once, i really can't say if he is the worst tango singer of all times. As a matter of fact, Pichuquito, the main bandoneòn player of "The truck-driver's venue", supports Gomez candidature to this glamourous prize. Nevertheless, i am sure that he would have been the perfect opening act in the concerts by Florence Foster Jenkins, the worst soprano ever, according to the following portrait by Patricio Lennard.

El Rusito Elìas by Guillermo Borovsky
Tango dancing is a wholly combustible art: it burns leaving no traces. In vain we would go through the tango annals looking for the contributions of those great dancers who came before us. Also today, if Internet didn't extend till our screens all the mistakes we couldn't see live, we would't even know what is going out of fashion in this very moment. On the other hand, if you can remember it you weren't there, as they say about the wild Sixties. But when Luck wants us to meet somebody who wasn't there instead of us - that's the case of this Rusito Elias' descendant and his impartial witness from the Todotango website - we'd better believe him by word. That's exactly what we are going to do as fast as we can.

El Moplo revisited An interview with El Moplo
It was maybe in 1995 when we interviewed El Moplo for the first time. It was at the Café Celta, a few steps from the Asociaciòn de los Profesores de Orquesta, where Pugliese used to rehearse every wednesday, the Sexteto Tango every tuesday and the Compañia Tangueros every day God was taking out from this world. Then, El Moplo, emboldened by the vermouth maison, disclosed all the secrets of the milonga for our readers. At that time, Buenos Aires hadn't been entirely tangoed yet and the milongas were not the joints for tourists of today. At that time we were just a few to know its codes, or how to twist them in order not to appear as a tourist. Today, it's the european or US visitor who rules the tango by his strong currency. Neither the Celta nor the Apo exist anymore. Instead of the first one, there is the wine-bar El Escabio; in the place of the second one, right where an attentive writer had written “A quien toca este edificio que lo parta un rayo”, (Who touches this building shall be struck in two by a thunder), the ruins of a fire. So, let's hear what El Moplo has to say about this shameful present-day tango.