Multi-culti Ozomatli Whips Santa Fe into a Frenzy

Ozomatli The Paramount, Santa Fe (july 22) The night of the show, my friend Astreya and I find ourselves caught amid the throngs in front of the Paramount. Dressed like a rave-era Carmen Miranda, Astreya stops and chats with every other person she sees, thus derailing my plans to skip the line entirely. She's lived in Santa Fe her whole life and knows everyone here. And by everyone, I don't mean the aggregation of mulletheads you usually find outside this joint. As I look around, I see that what accounts for the thickness of the crowd tonight is the fact that it's way more diverse than what you'd expect for the Paramount. There are young folks, old-ish folks, white folks, brown folks. (There's only one black guy in Santa Fe and he's here, too.) Generally, it's a pretty narrow wedge of the population that comes through these doors?the typical demographic is white, sanguine, relatively hip, between the ages of 21 and 30. In keeping with Santa Fe's overall spirit of segregation, Hispanics rarely turn up here, plus you can't get in if you're underage. In a town as small as this one, that leaves not too many people who can actually make it to the venue. But with Ozomatli's come-one-come-all-and-hang-up-your-hangups credo, this crowd is exactly what you'd expect.

We finally roll up to the front of the line to confront Mr. Mutant Bouncer Man. "Hi," I say flatly. "I'm on the list. My name's Catherine. With a C." Without even checking his clipboard, he says, "Your name's not on here." "Is too." "No Cathies here." "My name's Catherine and Van himself put me on the list."

Suddenly, the guy's, like, 3 feet tall. "Uh, hold on a second." He goes and gets in a football huddle with a couple other guys then returns with a profoundly humane smile. "Well, why didn't you say you were a friend of Van's? C'mon in." With that, the Meanest Bouncer in the World ushers us through the door, slipping us a couple of drink tickets on the way. Two rum-and-Cokes later, the lights go out and everyone starts shouting. Ozomatli are making their entrance from the back of the house, running through the audience banging their drums. They get onstage, the whole room chanting their name sonorously. The music starts to take shape, Latin rhythms emerge over the sound of records scratching. People start to do a mambo-like slamdance and the room's energy acquires a frenetic edge. The horns and the rhythm section are so tight my heart beats in rhythm and my butt wiggles salsa-style. Then frontman and trumpet player Asdru Sierra starts singing some crazy shit in Spanish and, for a moment, chubby, hirsute Angelino is the sexiest man on the planet.

I want Ozomatli to play like that forever. But they have to do their multiculti crowd-pleasing thing. Kanetic Source, not the strongest MC in the world, but definitely a nice guy, starts rapping about peace and love in the neighborhood. I can't hear what the DJ's doing at all. Then the band segues into a kinda punk rock vibe and, finally, they come into the audience, dancing and drumming, working the crowd into a frenzy over an a cappella cover of Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It." This seems a little hokey to me, but out of the corner of my eye, I spot my friend, the Mutant Bouncer, singing along and I remind myself not to be so cynical.