Originally Published in Spin magazine
by Deborah Frost
“CAMION! CAMION!” comes the cry from the front seat of the rented Mercedes wagon. “I don’t have time to die!”
If it’s Saturday, we must be somewhere in the ear-popping realm of the Alps between Geneva and Milan. The convoy of semis heading directly toward us, however, on a rain-slicked hairpin turn from which there is no escape, is not featured either on the snowcapped picture postcards of the region or on our tour itinerary.
“Aaayaaaala!” cries the driver, which translates roughly from the Arabic into “as God wills it” and sounds, especially issuing forth from the unchartable fathoms of the individual’s particular tonsils, lungs, and balls, rather like the opening bars of ‘Immigrant Song’, modified only slightly for interjectional purposes into ordinary life-and-death conversation. ||Continue reading||
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