 On September 11th, the day of the military takeover, you buried your beloved record albums and took down your revolutionary posters. From the roof of your house, you could hear the military attacking workers in a nearby factory. After a year of lying low, you returned to playing music at the Tambo Atacameño. Once, after curfew, you were almost nabbed by a patrol. You chewed the pages of your address book rather than let them fall into their hands.