The Scratched Record: Yo, mí, me, contigo
I don't know when Joaquín Sabina realized that the truth was not the most important thing. He was probably listening to José Alfredo Jiménez. I began to find out about 15 years ago, when I alternated on my music equipment an album from Spanish, another from the rest of the world, and so on.
The end of the century and the beginning of the new one was good for him. There is the best he gave. It was an intense creative stage, including stroke, which he had from 1996 to 2002, approximately. Four unforgettable albums, including the one he made with Fito. The others are, as is known, 19 dias y 500 noches (BMG / Ariola 1999), Dímelo en la calle (Ariola, 2002), and Yo, mí, me, contigo (Ariola, 1996). Any of the covers could appear above today, but that's not what it is, is it? I speak of this album because when I glide over my map of causality, trying to find the direction of the effect that I am now, I distinguish, in that spider web drawn in pencil, three or four darker lines: El Rock and roll de los idiotas, Jugar por jugar, Es mentira, El capitán de su calle. There are others, but let's talk about these.
Sabina is a tone, more than anything. He took it from Krahe, and from Bob Dylan. He leaked it, packaged it, sold it to the world, and the world, luckily, bought it. In the song in Spanish, the Joaquin-tone did not exist before him. Neither in my life, and when I found him, the ethical and aesthetic seam that bound my body fell away. In Gentile language we could say that I found cynicism, elegant, graceful cynicism, the one that makes you look smart, the cynicism necessary to play alternative girls in college, being skinny, ugly and poor. Then I have spent it imitating that tone, that verbal gesture; in speech, but more in actions. I can no longer remove the black from my nail. The churre is stuck. Now, even though he knows that sarcasm, cunning, wit, imposture, are not an end, but a means to be good, which is what you have to be; I could not otherwise sift the sand of the daily event. I have to be in the air to put my feet on the ground. I have to "Play to play, without having to die or kill."
Not long ago I read Indio Solari saying that he is more interested in people who seek the truth, than those who find it. Sabina is hovering around that area, that of people who do not pretend to find anything when she searches. It is the search itself, the way it occurs, that matters to him. If we could separate people into groups of content or of form , as we say cat lover or dog lover , the one from Úbeda would undoubtedly be people of the way . Not that you despise content, but if a fickle talk show host asks you, like those questions fickle talk show hosts ask: “Content or form? ", He will not fall into the trap and say, proud:" The content in the form. "
The people of poetry, which is the one I like the most, are people of form, people who understand that there is no form without content, but there is no beauty without form. Tell me discoverer of warm water, but I have seen writers stepped on muddy terrain like these in which a character from Mempo Giardinelli falls: “(…) when one comes across fine and sophisticated prose such as those of James, Sartre, Lezama, Joyce or Octavio Paz, one must reflect (…) on how brilliant there is in the ideas presented and how brilliant there was only in the way they were presented. (…) I'm not saying that these guys don't have ideas. What I am saying is that they are so brilliant, such good written speakers, (…) that one no longer knows if what they said is great or is it that they just said a truism ”. Whoever thinks like this is, necessarily, believing that the idea has some kind of material independence, that it can survive without language, and that, therefore, the size here is to bring new ideas to the cultural soup, although if it comes with style, the better. What a tremendous nonsense! As if ideas and language had ever been separate. This would be the content people, the people who, at some point, will believe that they found the truth.
Sabina says in Jugar por jugar: "Blessed be the mouth that kisses / and does not swallow coins." In El Rock and Roll de los idiotas: “I didn't come from any country. / You were on your way to anywhere ”. In Es mentira: “Look at the legs of desolation. / They wear the stockings that broke the passion ”. In El capitan de su calle: “but he kissed to recover / the kisses that he lacked”. That has been said since the first hominid could say it, and so many things have been said. But I (not to generalize, which I love), with 15 years, I can assure you that I had never encountered that, said like this.
In Joaquín Sabina. Forgive the sadness, a biography written by Javier Menéndez Flores, which I read the time it takes not to remember anything today, talks about how Don Joaquín said in 1980, speaking of Madrid: “When death comes to visit me / may they take me to south, where I was born. / There is no room for anyone here (…) ”, 20 years later swearing eternal love to the Spanish capital saying that“ Halfway between hell and heaven, / I get off in Atocha, I stay in Madrid ” . I don't remember what the circumstance of the book was. It could have been an interview in which the singer-songwriter was asked why the change in his relationship with the city. And it could also be that he responded: I don't mind changing my mind about something, even if it contradicts me. It slips me to contradict myself, because the truth slips me. Old fox.
Carlos M. Mérida
Oidor. Coleccionista sin espacio. Leguleyo. Temeroso de las abejas y de los vientos huracanados.