Carlos “El Indio” Solari has spoken again, and as is often the case whenever he breaks his marble seclusion, he does so to spit on the popular will. To us, who have chosen freedom, your VIP barricade discourse no longer resonates. In the end, you were right about one thing, though not as you believed. He is the moral responsible for the 28 injured in Huracán (1994), for the death of Lencina in Villa María (1995), for the blood of Ríos at River (2000), and for Filipi in 2001. And as if history weighed nothing on him, he repeated the horror in Olavarría in 2017, where Bulacio and León lost their lives in a human trap set by the greed of selling unlimited tickets, while he, from above, asked to “take care of those who were fainting” before fleeing in a private jet, leaving chaos and death behind. Today, this millionaire recluse tries to give us lessons in civic morality. He tries to tell us what to vote for and how to think. The man who says that “if you vote for Milei, you’re ruining the lives of others,” forgets—or chooses to ignore—that he is insulting the 56% of a country that democratically chose change, making the current president the most voted in the history of our democracy. But what does someone who lives locked up in his own ivory tower know about democracy? It is easy to lecture on morality and social justice when you spend half the year in New York, enjoying the fruits of capitalism that you so much criticize in your cryptic lyrics. But no one believes you anymore, Indio. You are the clay idol who ignored the death of Walter Bulacio in 1991, looking the other way while the police hunted down his followers. The one who, envious of genuine talent, waited for Luca Prodan to die to shave his head and appropriate an image that never belonged to him. Your demagoguery is falling apart. Today we see a man consumed. For your followers, and for the victims you left in your path due to your criminal negligence: “LIVING ONLY COST LIFE.” Solari has blood on his hands and a selective memory. Not only from a Parkinson's disease that many, in low voices and not so low, dare to point out as an implacable karma, but consumed by his own social phobia. The same one, with that voice that sounds like a “screeching halt,” has systematically precarious his musicians, treating them as disposable parts in his billing machine, while he erected himself as the only God on stage. But his aesthetic and political hypocrisy pales before his moral record. Solari is the archetype of the “communist of the cocktail party”: he preaches revolution for the impoverished masses while he accumulates millions in hard currency, far from the mud that his followers tread on. That disgust for people that he disguises as “agoraphobia” and rockstar mysticism, but which is nothing more than the contempt of a misanthrope who needs the public only to fatten his bank account, but cannot bear to look them in the eye. We are talking about the same character who built his aesthetic on outright theft.
