Maybe it was the heat that made us argue, but whatever it was, it was really making me and my newly- found Spanish enemy yell really loud. The worst part was that it was a stupid argument.

"They did not control Spain," Gabrielle said in accented but self- assured English. She was staring right at me and I could tell she was angry, which just egged me on.

"Look Gabrielle, I'm not trying to insult you, but I'm not an idiot either. The Moors controlled Spain for, oh, several centuries! I just came from the Alhambra and if you haven't noticed, it was made by the Moors. And so is half of your own damn city. Why can't you just admit that Spain was controlled by the Moors? What's the big deal?"

"I will not admit it. Spain is ruled by Spaniards. Spain has always been ruled by Spaniards. Spain will always be ruled by Spaniards. You will go now. I will not welcome you in my home anymore."

"Fine, you bullheaded freak. You don't have to ask me twice. I'm gone."

I'd met Gabrielle at a bull fight in her home town of Seville, where she was amused by my cheers in favor of the bull. She saved me from a group of die-hard fans who were itching to pummel a loud- mouthed American. She also saved me from the Pensione de la Aranxchia, where I had awoken to ants setting up camp on my face and one of my eight roommates trying to steal my backpack.

Gabrielle and I had come to the end of our friendship after only two days, and that was just fine with me because she was starting to get on my nerves with her revisionist Spanish history lessons (you should have heard her thoughts on Native Sevilleian Christopher Columbus). The Moors were the last straw. I didn't even care about who ruled Spain and when, but I knew she was bullshitting me, and I don't like being bullshitted.

I wanted to get out of Seville as quickly as possible, so I hopped on an express train heading to Madrid. My Walkman, along with the Material Issue/ Yatsura tape in it, had been stolen in Barcelona, which left me watching a Spanish- dubbed version of "Men In Black" on the train. It was actually funnier in Spanish than in English, and I don't speak Spanish.

As soon as the movie was over, we arrived in Madrid and the heat immediately put me back in a bad mood. I needed power- pop and I needed it bad. But, I thought, my chances of finding power- pop in the heart of Spain were slim to none. I found a room, dropped my gear and headed down to the closest bar I could find for the next best thing to power- pop: a couple glasses of Sangria. The bar I found had an English sign that simply said "Insanity Wave Live Tonight." This seemed like the place for me on a hot Spanish evening.

When the band came out, they bantered in Spanish, but their lyrics were English. And the music may as well have been in English, too. There wasn't a hint of Spanish culture in it. The three chords were much simpler than any elegant Spanish fingerpicking. The drums and vocals were furious, not ethereal like the Moor- influenced folk mantras I'd heard all over Granada. And there was little romance in their blistering set. Accidentally, I'd found my power- pop.

The guys burned through about a dozen songs in about 30 minutes, and then left for what I assumed was a break-- I wasn't sure because they took their bow in Spanish.

As the music and the Sangria sank in, I remembered something that I'd read about Spanish son Antonio Banderas. He said he liked America because everything was new, and that American artists weren't as confined to tradition as European artists. Insanity Wave hadn't confined themselves to any European traditions, they went for radio Americana-- and hit it pretty well.

Here I was in the heart of a nation five times older than the United States, and the only thing that cheered me up was a band whose musical traditions didn't even stretch back five decades. To make matters worse, they were speaking a foreign language in their native land. I was depressed. Insanity Wave had made me happy, and I felt like a jerk because of it-- a stranger in a strange land demanding all the creature comforts of home. I could have wallowed in my pity, but the Sangria tasted good and Insanity Wave came back on stage, so I shook my depression and enjoyed the rest of the set.

-Shan Fowler