I, me, me, with you
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 did him good. That's the best he gave. It was an intense creative stage, stroke included, which he had from 1996 to 2002, approximately. Four unforgettable albums, counting the one he made with Fito. The others are, as is known, 19 days and 500 nights (BMG/Ariola 1999), tell me on the street (Ariola, 2002), and I, me, me, with you (Ariola, 1996). Any of the tops could have appeared on top today, but that's not the point, is it? I speak of this album because when I hover over my map of causalities, 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: Idiot's rock n 'roll, play to play, Is a lie, The captain of your street. 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."
I recently read Indio Solari say that he is more interested in people who seek the truth than those who find it. Sabina is prowling that area, the area of people who don't pretend to find anything when they search. It is the search itself, the way it occurs, that matters to him. If we could separate people into groups of content or so, as we say cat lover or dogs lover, the one from Úbeda would be, without a doubt, people so. Not that I despise the content, but if a fickle presenter of talk show asks him, like those questions that the presenters of talk shows fickle: "Content or form?", he will not fall into the trap and say, smugly: "The content in the form."
The people of poetry, which is what I like the most, are people so, people who understand that there is no form without content, but there is no beauty without form. Call me the discoverer of warm water, but I have seen writers made to step on muddy ground like these into which a character from Mempo Giardinelli falls: “(…) when one comes across fine and sophisticated prose like that of James, Sartre, Lezama, Joyce or Octavio Paz, one must reflect (...) on how much brilliance there is in the exposed ideas and how much brilliance there was only in the way they were exposed. (…) I'm not saying that these guys don't have ideas. What I am saying is that they are so brilliant, such good speakers in writing, (…) that one no longer knows if what they said is great or if they just said something obvious”. Whoever thinks this way is necessarily believing that the idea has some kind of material independence, that it can survive without language, and that, therefore, the goal here is to bring new ideas to the cultural broth, although if it comes with style, the better. What tremendous nonsense! As if ideas and language had ever been separate. This would be the people of content, the people who, at some point, will believe that they found the truth.
Sabina says in play to play: "Blessed be the mouth that gives kisses / and does not swallow coins." In Idiot's rock n 'roll: “I did not come from any country. / You were on your way to anywhere”. In Is a lie: “Look at the legs of desolation. / They wear the stockings that broke passion”. In The captain of your street: “but he kissed to recover / the kisses that were missing”. It's It 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), at 15 years old, I can assure you that I had never come across it's, saying So.
In Joaquin 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 / take me to the south, where i was born / Here there is no room for anyone (...)”, to 20 years later swear eternal love to the Spanish capital saying that “Halfway between hell and heaven, / I get off at 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 answered: 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.