Luis Mojica tiene en How a Stranger is Made, su más reciente álbum solista, una apuesta que va más allá de ejercer su creatividad fuera de Rasputina, pues además de soltar por un rato el cello para ejecutar en el piano, éste multi instrumentista llega con energías renovadas para presentarse en público, tal y como lo demuestra con el vídeo promocional que acompaña a su más reciente sencillo, grabado en vivo en el Utopia Soundstage de Woodstock, continuando así el trabajo iniciado con The Ranger y City Friends.

Shaman Food es la canción del estilo de vida basado en la falsa empatía, como justificación para imponer los usos y costumbres que faciliten la vida a los menos aptos, pretendiendo ejercer un nuevo orden que coloque a la minoría responsable como casta rectora de todo bien o mal, tal como las religiones, plagadas de mártires pero sin cruces o milagros más allá de un «inspirador» discurso adoctrinante.

Luis Mojica, Shaman Food…

They talk to Spirit,
Then they eat french fries,
It’s a long, long road,
Until they die.

They cover up,
In some chemical,
Imposture of saffron,
It’s their cubicle-polluting-camouflage.

They claim that their life,
Is the only formal proof,
Wrapped in plastic,
They’ll preserve it just for you.

And then they claim to have found their shaman.

Shopping at their Dollar Store,
She’s a Purple Plastic Priestess,
For a fee she can be yours.

They leave their flies wide open,
And their hairs unkempt for God,
Still, you pay them,
To invade uncommon sod.

And leave that sacred Earth all open,
And exposed to blinding skies,
Because Americans,
Only eat Goddess fried.

And when your order’s up,
It’s not so easy to get down,
So the prophet chants,
And digestion abounds!

And in that deep-dish-entranced-well-wish,
Where serpents lash around,
Mediocre songs arouse,
That little pinecone in their crown.

And their songs take,
You to a dark place,
H/elixir of black snakes,
Will feast on you.

They talk to Spirit,
And order up from her french fries,
Not a tuber but a root,
To blow their mind.

Because your truth is so real,
During the intoxication,
Then a sham during,
Sober abnegation.

So go pray in the parking lot,
To find a spare dollar,
To undress her,

And caress her in your car.

And as you clutch your precious,
Former water bottle charm,
I will bind you from pursuing,
The Mother,
Or yourself,
Or anyone,
Any harm!

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