Federico Moura

In the years when almost all Argentine rock was listened to sitting down — solemn, heavy, carrying metaphors in order to survive the dictatorship — Federico Moura walked onto a stage and got people dancing. And for that, at first, they threw oranges at him. What serious rock did not understand, and what time ended up proving, is that in a country governed by fear, dancing was also a form of resistance.

The Bowie of the south

Federico was born in La Plata in 1951, on the same day as Charly García, a few kilometres away. He was elegant, refined, and a clothing designer besides; he moved with a calm that resembled no other rocker. With his brothers Julio and Marcelo he founded Virus, which debuted in 1980, and brought something the rock of that place did not have: new wave, synthesisers, irony, sensuality, and a singer of another species — androgynous, ambiguous, elegant — who broke the macho rocker mould at a stroke. It is no accident that many called him "the Argentine Bowie": like Bowie in the north, Federico turned androgyny and the mask into art, and ambiguity into a form of freedom. But he was no copy; he was very much his own. He sang about the body, love, desire, with double meanings and humour, when those words were almost taboo. His was, as has been aptly said, depth disguised as lightness.

What nobody saw behind the dance floor

Behind that dance floor was something almost nobody saw, and which gives everything its true weight. The Moura family had been devastated by the dictatorship: the eldest brother, Jorge, a political militant, was abducted in 1977 and never came back; he remains disappeared. Federico never spoke about it in public, but he wrote it, in code, into a song, "Ellos nos han separado". Which is to say: the band many took for frivolous was a family from which the regime had torn a son. Federico's lightness was not ignoring the horror; it was a chosen answer to the horror. Faced with the fear and death governing the country, he chose beauty, the body, pleasure, joy, as a way of not letting terror have the last word. He turned repression into irony, darkness into colour, fear into desire. He invited people to dance at the edge of the abyss.

A dance floor as a free country

In a few years he left an enormous body of work. A first, irreverent, almost punk trilogy — "Wadu Wadu" (1981), "Recrudece" (1982), "Agujero interior" (1983) — and a second, more sophisticated and danceable, with elegant keyboards that gave birth to much of the electronic pop that followed: "Relax" (1984), his most successful album, "Locura" (1985) and "Superficies de placer" (1987). What he built, in the end, was a dance floor, and that dance floor was a small free country: there, for a few hours, you could be sensual, ambiguous, full of desire, alive without asking permission — exactly what the country outside punished.

The end, without euphemisms

The end was among the hardest. Federico died of AIDS, and he was one of the first major Argentine artists to do so, in a time of brutal stigma, when the illness was loaded with shame and silence. AZT had appeared, with tremendous side effects; at some point he stopped taking it and tried alternative treatments, and his body faded until he weighed thirty-five kilos. He died on 21 December 1988, at thirty-seven, almost exactly a year after Luca Prodan, and his death, together with Luca's and Miguel Abuelo's, closed one of the most fateful periods in Argentine rock.

Our Bowie's band, without its Bowie

His brother Marcelo took the microphone and kept Virus alive. And here is a paradox that stings: one of the last times the band played in those years was opening for David Bowie, in 1990. The master from the north who had shown the way of androgyny and reinvention, supported by the band of the man who had done the same in the south. Except that Federico, "the Argentine Bowie", was no longer there to walk onto that stage. Marcelo sang. Our Bowie's band opened for Bowie, without its Bowie.

The two brothers, in the river

There is a final gesture that says more than any explanation. In 2004, his brothers Marcelo and Julio removed his remains from the cemetery, cremated them and scattered his ashes in the Río de la Plata, to accompany Jorge, the brother who had been disappeared into those same waters. The one who made people dance and the one who was taken, together again, in the river. And Federico's voice is still there, in "Amor descartable", in "Sin disfraz", on every dance floor where someone lets go and forgets the world for a while. If you ever danced to Virus without knowing that the man singing had turned a family's grief into an invitation to be free, now you know. He made joy out of the abyss, and left it to us.

Sources

Federico José Moura (La Plata, 23 October 1951 – Buenos Aires, 21 December 1988) was leader and singer of Virus, a foundational band of new wave and pop in Spanish, formed in La Plata with his brothers Julio and Marcelo, debuting in 1980. As well as a musician he was a clothing designer. He was born on the same day as Charly García. His eldest brother, Jorge Moura, a militant of the People's Revolutionary Army (ERP), was abducted in 1977 by the dictatorship and remains disappeared; Federico did not speak about it publicly, but the song "Ellos nos han separado", from the album "Agujero interior" (1983), is read as an allusion. Virus offered danceable, ironic, sensual music in contrast to the solemnity of the rock of the time, and was initially resisted, including the episode of oranges thrown at the band. Key albums: "Wadu Wadu" (1981), "Recrudece" (1982), "Agujero interior" (1983), "Relax" (1984, his most successful), "Locura" (1985) and "Superficies de placer" (1987). Federico died of complications from AIDS, one of the first well-known Argentine artists to do so, in a context of heavy stigma; he came to weigh around 35 kilos. His death, along with those of Luca Prodan (1987) and Miguel Abuelo (1988), marked the close of an era. His brother Marcelo took over as vocalist; Virus played for the last time in that period opening for David Bowie, in 1990. Federico Moura was often compared to Bowie — "the Argentine Bowie" — for his androgyny, elegance and play with ambiguity and reinvention. He was buried in the Chacarita cemetery; in 2004 his brothers Marcelo and Julio removed his remains, cremated them and scattered his ashes in the Río de la Plata to accompany their disappeared brother. No song lyrics are reproduced, for copyright reasons. Sourced from Wikipedia, El Destape, Infobae, La Capital, 0221 and other press coverage.