Last night at the milonga, something happened that got me thinking.
A neotango track came on. Nothing too extreme: a soft electronic beat, a sampled bandoneon, that rhythm that mixes the old with the new.
The dance floor emptied.
Not completely, but enough to notice. Some went back to their tables with the excuse of “let’s get some water.” Others just sat down with their arms crossed, silently urging the DJ to put on something “real.”
And at the back of the hall, a couple of young guys — the kind who got into tango through Gotan, Bajofondo, or that Almodóvar movie — killed it. They danced with everything. With embrace, with turns, with soul.
It got me thinking.


