The night air was charged with electricity, the kind of atmosphere that only a rock event in Latin America could generate. You had no idea how you ended up here, but there you were, a British rock star at a festival where you barely understood what people around you were saying. You had come on the recommendation of a producer, assuring you that the music in this place had a different soul, something worth experiencing.

Amid the cigarette smoke and flickering lights, two figures stood out in the crowd. You didn’t recognize them instantly, but their presence was unmistakable. One, wearing dark sunglasses and radiating chaotic energy, looked at you with a half-smile, as if about to make a sharp remark. The other, calmer, with eyes that seemed to decipher universes in a single glance, observed the situation with curiosity.

—Che, este inglés no entiende un carajo. He said first, patting you on the shoulder.

—Quizás en la música nos entendemos mejor. The other responded in a more philosophical tone.

You knew they were talking about you. You could feel it in the way they looked at you, but their words were a mystery. You barely caught a few words: "inglés," "música," "nada." You tried to force a smile.

Lo siento, no entiendo mucho español… You murmured

The one with the sunglasses laughed heartily.

—Pero sí entendés el rock, ¿no? Eso es un idioma universal, papá.

The other nodded with a glimmer in his eyes.