@eltrompetistaciego

DEMO: does music make the musician?

The collection of poems was never ready to be read. I guess it's the same for some amateur musicians, recording a demo so it's never heard is part of the training. I'm simplistic in the comparisons, perhaps because it's not dawn yet and I already draw peripatetic conclusions, a Wednesday like this one doesn't want the sun to rise yet, at four in the morning the sun doesn't have to rise yet. 

I wrote a book called @eltrompetistaciego, book read, solely and exclusively, by me, pages declared as: DEMO POEMS (all the noises and mistakes and erratic versifications are due to the homemade style of the poetic notebook). Fortunately, I didn't submit it to any contests that I know of, no one should have a copy of the manuscript with a list of countermusical questions: 

Do musicians need alcohol?

Do musicians need drugs?

Do musicians need girlfriends?

Do musicians need beads?

Do musicians need agents?

Do musicians need representatives?

Do musicians need cement?

do musicians need condyloma?

Do musicians need a lyre?

Do musicians need language?

Do musicians need television?

do musicians need leukemia?

do musicians need a scar?

do musicians need glaucoma?

Do musicians need a raft?

do musicians need agriculture?

Do musicians need a diet?

[…]

Design: Jennifer Ancízar.

Does the academy make the musician?

Does the dead son make the musician?

Does the changüí make the musician?

Does the cliff make the musician?

Does the musician make the musician?

Does music make the musician?

Does tradition make the musician?

Does the musician follow tradition?

Great Brilliant Waltz, Op. 18

I am not a music lover. It's strange, few things have moved me more than being in the Chopin Museum and feeling overwhelmed by music, small events make me feel more alive than the sound of an open-air concert, than a mouth singing in my right ear, than a a cappella breathing in the neck. Devoted lover to give a playlist and that, I wish, I'll learn, the age will come to love like this. I recently discovered that there is no vacuum enough that a playlist cannot fill, it is not even a matter of filling, but of completing the void with certain memories of objects, bubbles, unexpected tickles and harmonies that always lead to an exact place in the imagination. 

If I were a music lover it would be to conquer someone, that must be what is specific to the DEMO: conquest.

It is smarter to create a demo of a song than a demo of an album, producing a single song has a high cost, especially if you aspire to be Tash Sultana and that your grandfather gives you a guitar at the age of three. That song composed by multi-instrumentalist elle that is a story about what always suffered at four in the morning. These POEMS DEMOS without hallucinogenic mushrooms, made me feel Jungle on a Wednesday in 2017. I think it is a very lucky thing that there is no YouTube or Spotify to say: “this poem sounds like this, from the depths and visceral of my guts, listen to it at seventeen”. 

@eltrompetistaciego It was an attempt at a mythical multi-instrumentalist, a divided and fragmented song seeking to find out what really resonates with me and why.

Some reasons why I don't talk much about my relationship with music have their explanation in my auditory modesty: it is not to share what the ear feels, it is not designed to be explained or verified, there should be no exhaustive prerogative of nostalgic melodies , love affairs in oriental sounds, mechanical music in decline, electronic music in splendor, intimate music on the Seine, improper music on rotten cassettes that slept with me. No one is exempt from musical sentimentality.

I like to hum and follow the rhythm softly, I like to go out of tune and they say, despite the out of tune, he has a very beautiful voice. To keep taste intact, to listen to too many hymns and military music only abroad, to think about what is lost and what is musically pulsed by cities: the cars at dawn, the wind in the abandoned factory, the horn and the empty market; these are not enough reasons, they are not even a statement or a reason, just a necessary estrangement for the listening that I enjoy.

Design: Jennifer Ancízar.

As a teenager I dreamed of being the showgirl for someone very famous, the one who stands behind and lets her arms move with a correct, enthusiastic swing. This confession has its traumatic cause. If I may, I can record a demo for AM: PM about my musical and sad casuistry, seven songs —so as not to exaggerate too much with the melodrama— that would come to explain —biographically— why I don't talk about my relationship with music:

1. Your, by Shakira, to sing in karaoke at the Pabellón Cuba at the age of twelve and for everyone to laugh at me. (For this text I recorded myself singing karaoke on a Wednesday at four in the morning).
2. love graffiti, by Carlos Varela, for my first love. A teenage diary page filled with one color fish: Yoan & Martha. A film about the footprint.
3. I am your pirate, by Chayanne, for my first penetrative sexual encounter on sheets covered in petals. The light coming through the window was too orange.
4. Forbidden love, by Selena, to sing on the balcony of a hotel in Matanzas with my friend Rogelio. excited. Power goes out, of course.
5. The blue plush yabo, Clan 537, for a party in the street in which a tumultuous brawl broke out. Fear. Very scared that I will not forget.
6. Great Brilliant Waltz, Op. 18, by Chopin, Warsaw, some big headphones, a tour guide and the desire to fall asleep in the museum. numb.
7. Martha, by Tom Waits, to cry on the boardwalk with her who turns on her little blue iPod and asks me, what do you want from me, Martha? Too sad to see the sea widen between us when that song shakes us. 

And those were the days of roses
Poetry and prose and Martha
All I had was you and all you had was me
There was no tomorrow's
We'd packed away our sorrows
And we saved them for a rainy day.

The saddest musician ever

I need the musicians even though they don't need me. I need the music lovers who say, listen to this gem, close your eyes, put your pain here in Sparklehorse, which is your favorite band for Wednesdays when it won't dawn and you get more melancholic and musical than any television series. I have a habit of spending a lot of time with people and objects that have no certainty that I exist. There is no trace of arrogance in this delivery, just a penchant for passionate and fearsome thoughts, something like: “You can be my friend / You can be my dog / You can be my light / You can be my fog"

Design: Jennifer Ancízar.

The collection of poems was never ready to be read. This sentence is applicable to almost everything in my life, a lot of insistence on the processes, but too much concern for the purpose. Who writes a collection of poems so that it is not read? Someone young and inexperienced who is not yet looking for algorithms in writing or ashamed to find musical meaning in the mystery of a blind trumpeter, the oriental organ, the poet text joker and Chinese opera. No one wants to read a collection of poems about all that leftover, unnecessary sound. A collection of poems that should be a playlist for a confessed score of what I (don't) feel (yet). 

This is the last poem @eltrompetistaciego, you don't have to like it.

Musical diary at four in the morning

In my will of a dying bitch and a woman who lives at four in the morning

I date the final concert

I choose the purgatory that is the festival

I hang a poster and create an event on Facebook

In my wanderings through the city I notice the street musicians

I ask them about the memory

I ask them about the legend of @eltrompetistaciego

A the mambisitos are not the mambisitos I ask you about Robertiko 

And his musical and peasant love appears to me like a prophecy.

In my will I ask a rapper who is a poet 

if you understand my female soul of a girl smudged with sperm from insistent musicians

In my wandering at four in the morning there are few admirable and musical things

Announce the concert schedule

Arrive at four in the morning with your instrument

They squander my sex to their liking

They ask me to open my throat

to never regain sight

Design: Jennifer Ancízar.

Does noise affect my vision?

Does noise affect my tubes and affect my pregnancy?

Does my friend understand that by taking dictation from her love for the trumpet I am trying to understand my disillusioned participation in the musical scene of my country?

Am I the daughter of the lot in which five genders are superimposed at bedtime, exactly at four in the morning?

I have read too faithfully a music guide 

I've listened to Chinese opera singers

and I have felt ashamed for not having money to buy them a house 

I have heard my grandfather sing with tobacco in hand 

and death on the other hand

I have superimposed my skills as a regular and off-key singer 

with the lyricism of a death announced at four in the morning 

following in my mother's footsteps

always follow in my mother's footsteps

Design: Jennifer Ancízar.

I'm interested in musical theater because I don't know it

I am interested in theater because it is an act of survival

I am interested in poetry because at four in the morning it begins to unravel in my eardrums

In my will I will put words happy

In the taxis of Buenos Aires I will sing and be applauded by the taxi drivers 

that make fun of my petty little pop leprous voice

In Berlin I want to improvise in a disco

in which my feet will bleed sparkling 

In Peru I will sing with a Bluetooth device

that I will buy in a kiosk of men who smell my head

In my will I will say: I am a native of Warsaw

And they will visit me in Warsaw

A tarja will speak of me slam

A tarja will announce that this was repentismo

A tab will indicate pizzicato where have i been

If this is not a guaracha live

I don't know what it is

in Bishop I asked

and no one said a peep

My hobby at four in the morning for unknown music 

and by the unknown musicians 

and by unknown men 

who pay a measly price to take the music from my tubes

Announcement of ticket sales

@eltrompetistaciego is a crater in my will

and I know that is very sad

crater plays on a broken record

crater sounds like losing your life in the liver of your friend Marien

how to lose your life in the womb of your fertile girlfriend

how to lose your life in the head of your crazy friend

like losing your life in a concert with blood

how to lose vision

how to recover vision

and lose her again

and I know that is very sad

while I bark and bark

everywhere

dying bitch will sing

Canceled due to heavy rain and snow.

@eltrompetistaciego is the saddest musician that exists and I am a woman as happy as the sound of thunder at four in the morning on my shoulder, a sound that is all the frames of a previous life in which I was a musician and not a theater closed with a musty smell, it's that smell that doesn't let me enjoy your music, it's just dawn.

[2017]