Worn-out record: Rico y famoso
I didn't listen to the entire album until recently on Spotify, but I met Sergio Makaroff a few years ago for a folder of loose songs where almost all of those from this 1997 album were. That's why I want it (on the phonogram, on Makaroff too, but he didn't talk about it.) If someone who reads plans to shop around Barcelona in the near future, they already know what souvenir can bring me.
In 2006, just after finishing high school, as a kind of graduation trip, we went a group to la Isla de la Juventud. At night, in the gazebo of the central park of Nueva Gerona, a diverse wildlife gathered, the cream alternative villagers. There we met a boy who was the vocalist of a rock band. Very nice people and they sang quite well. I remember that in his voice I heard What’s up for the first time, the 4 <Blondes mega hit that you will have to mount with your cover band if you want to be successful in the Yellow Submarine. He was older than us, though I don't think he was 30, and he became our cicerone of the local underground scene.
One of those nights in the gazebo he introduced us to Pescao, a unique character in that ecosystem. Dirty mulatto with dreadlocks (or perhaps common braids) and excruciating ethyl breath. He was one of those people you love from afar: you like them, but two meters away; and yet, because I don't know which counterweight of nature, they are the most affectionate, the ones that put their arms around your neck to talk to you. It is a Murphy's Law.
Pescao was a poet. He worked at the Gerona House of Culture and everyone seemed to love him. That night of which I speak, he sang a cappello Corazón desabrochado, by Boris, moderately tuned and almost without opening his eyes. As he did so, our cicerone, who was listening in silence, said quietly to us: “Don't listen to Pescao; but pay attention to it ”. That is exactly what needs to be done with Sergio Makaroff.
Or Buenos Aires or Catalan, but both, this master of mockery gave me a pair of signals to understand and understand (Sabina and Krahe also did, but now we talk about the Argentinian). He taught me that the most serious thing in the world is not taking yourself seriously, or at least doing it only when necessary; that the true vice is to strive to have none.
The eldest of the Makaroff brothers makes contradiction virtue, beauty, honesty. It is clearly seen in Flores Invisibles, the second track on the album, which tells a little about what it was like for him to emigrate to Spain from Argentina. The structure of the lyrics is very enunciative. It has two initial stanzas that constitute the before part: Buenos Aires, South America; two finals that are after part: Spain, Barcelona; and a chorus that we could locate in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and that works as a pivot, applies to both moments.
In the before it says: "Horizonte en bandolera / crucé el mar, bucanero / No era el oro mi quimera / despreciaba el vil dinero”. En el después, con su cara de palo, desvergonzado, niega lo anterior: “Cultivé el jardín del alma / con muy poético esmero / Ahora busco la calma / esa paz que da el dinero".
Inconsistency is clear. He knows this better than anyone, but he also knows that is not the important thing. The only thing that interests him, what survives the before and the after is the chorus, which says: "Traje flores invisibles / de pétalos quebradizos / y colores imposibles".
This is the people I like the most. People who are not afraid of their contradictions, who do not try to be consistent, who know that humans are too complex a bug to be consistent all the time. Being the best person you can be, but if we sacrifice consistency along the way, well, the world is not going to end either. That is why Makaroff says: "No quiero la gloria / ni la santa verdad / porque la realidad / al final me supera."
A little while ago I was arguing in a WhatsApp group with a buddy from high school (he said he was talking, and so was I, but in reality we were arguing; what a hobby with moderation! I was about to say: "broder, argue! What's up? What's wrong with that? Gesture, sweat the armpit, spray the auditorium with saliva, say pinga and balls, you're not Danish!", but I didn't). There was talk of politics, and at some point he pulled out the card that you had to be consistent with your own actions.
Here among us, folks. What's that about being consistent? People are contradictory by nature. The contradiction is as human as the opposable thumb. Mankind is many things, but at the center, at the core, at the nitty-gritty of complexity, is only an organism that knows that it exists, and that therefore it is going to die. My friends, there is no greater contradiction than that. So do not come to me with that you have to be consistent, because existing and knowing it is a fucking inconsistency.
Carlos M. Mérida
Oidor. Coleccionista sin espacio. Leguleyo. Temeroso de las abejas y de los vientos huracanados.