Mr. Trump’s wall, we’ve learned, can be breached with a $100 saw from Home Depot. Here, in a quondam Bank of Mexico decked out in the red and black of New York’s Zinc Bar, this sextet from the streets of Aquascalientes will use subtler instruments to pierce the barriers between Parisian hot clubs, mariachi cantinas, Balkan wedding halls, Argentine milongas, and the wide open spaces of spaghetti Westerns. —E.E.