In Juana Molina’s first version of Paraguaya, someone is holding the corner of a silk, black dress, and then walking along the length of a polished old table, wooden, turning around and twisting, the fabric twists and folds around the spinning body. The movements are not fast, but sharp, planned, a scheme more than a performance. Each noise seems to be on its own, coming from a machine or contraption that requires a chemistry experiment to get it working. There aren’t lit candles or a howling wind, that would be too obvious for the specific suspicion and tempt of Molina’s sound, but there is something odd and off, an aura the punk version does not hold. Punk Paraguaya is younger, more jumpy and less restrained. They have ran outside and are hunting, still spinning, but with others now, bumping and jumping into each other, they’re all stropping, yelling, not happy at all and having so much fun shrieking about it. The silk has been torn, rugged, the hem frayed and trodden. Molina strops, her voice strains and growls, all the instruments crash and slide together, sounding really human and tactile, physical, ending with such a joyful and naughty squeal.
Image: Melanie Marsman