Picture yourself in a sunny Buenos Aires park. The narrator of “Loco” wanders alone, lights up "un porrito," and calmly watches pigeons peck at crumbs while a street mime performs nearby. On the surface it feels like an aimless afternoon, yet his inner monologue is anything but lazy. He confesses he is "violento, radical" and must repress an assassin’s instinct, hinting at the wild impulses bubbling under his cool exterior. Still, he quietly plays “el papel principal,” the starring role society expects, showing us the funny tension between what we feel inside and how we behave out in public.
Then the chorus erupts: “Yo soy un loco que se dio cuenta que el tiempo es muy poco.” He is crazy only because he has realized how fleeting life really is. That epiphany turns everyday sights—pigeons, crumbs, clowns—into reminders that each second counts. Calamaro celebrates this liberating madness, urging listeners to drop pretenses, savor small pleasures, and stop postponing joy. The repeated “nanananana” hook feels like a carefree whistle on the wind, suggesting that maybe, just maybe, embracing a little certified craziness is the best way to make limited time stretch further.