Easily the best piece of music writing I've come across in the New Yorker in many moons (sigh, where do I begin with the travesty that was Sasha-Frere Jones's woeful and uninsightful-with-full-access LCD profile?), Alec Wilkinson's piece of norteño superstars, Los Tigres del Norte will be on my ballot come Best Music Writing time. There are so many favorite bits here, from the scene at Randy's Ballroom in my hometown (known mostly to white folks for being a stop on both the Sex Pistols' legendary traipse through the south and for the Beastie Boys on the License to Ill tour) to Ry Cooder's recollection on seeing their fans down in Monterrey act out every line of every song to the last 'graph, where the band is brusquely searched by two cops, one treating them like illegals while the other asks for an autograph. But my favorite bit about Los Tigres comes from their press agent:
Most acts have to be taken through the kitchen when they return to their hotels, to avoid the fans in the lobby. Los Tigres have to go through the front door. "You take them through the kitchen, and you shut down the hotel," he said. "There is no room service, no more maid service, and the housekeeping closes down."
