Mexican music journalism seemed divided into two strands: that of ventriloquist's dummies manipulated by the music industry, and pseudo-erudite pedantry. A bland and predictable journalism, uprooted from a rich Anglo-Saxon tradition, above all, and Mexican, which gave form and substance to rock. Alejandro González Castillo's Manual de Carroña is a rare avis of love for the craft and its passions, one that holds its own against the masters of the genre. His biting and refined prose updates a fertile tradition of Mexican picaresque literature through the chronicle, which, according to the author, "is not a literary genre, but an animal. Juan Villoro once said it resembled a platypus, but before accepting such an equation, I'd put a pin on the map, right where I live, to say that I don't share that point of view for a very simple reason: I was born, grew up, and still live on the outskirts of the Mexican capital, and a platypus has never passed in front of me. I maintain that the chronicle belongs to the canis genus. Specifically, the canis lupus familiaris, or dogs. Quick: for me, the chronicle is a dog. Or rather, a female dog." González Castillo delves into the great rock and roll scam from the underworld of concerts and the eventful here and now of his personal experience. A handful of etchings that blend autobiography, wisdom, and disenchantment. From the depths of a beloved author, this rock-and-roller's manual bears witness to the collapse of youthful rebellion, which, in its globalized masses, wrote its epitaph on an Ocesa ticket.