You listen to Hayd\u00e9e Milan\u00e9s in the waiting room of a hospital and at the P2 stop under that torrential downpour on any Tuesday. You listen to it in the kitchen, in the shower, or while you throw down the bookcase and take out the accumulated dust for almost two years. Haydee in bed, in the streets, in the story that some day you decided to forget before it was too late. Long before. Haydee in Dragon-fly<\/i>, in Both love<\/i>, in Words<\/i>. Always, or almost always, threatening to break you. You, reinventing yourself. To feel "another way to be happy." To understand despite you, despite the song. You, asking yourself; She answering many of your questions.<\/p>\n
But time passes. And it's Haydee who gets lost in the disk folders that you once loved and stored on your laptop. Hayd\u00e9e between David Bowie, between Alice in Chains, between Angus & Julia Stone, between Liuba Mar\u00eda Hevia and Fink and Ariel Barreiro and the Yellowjackets and Gema and Pavel and ... Time passes and other music arrives, other loves and, of course, other soundtracks for those loves. And Hayd\u00e9e is there, somewhere. You do not know where.<\/p>\n
The funny thing is that, many years later, a friend -who was so crazy about founding a music magazine-, asks you for a review about the novelty of Hayd\u00e9e Milan\u00e9s. You tell him that you do not have time, that you walk in a thousand things, that you have to write a text of more than twenty pages with footnotes, that, imagine, do not write with footnotes from the thesis (and that has already happened six years). And you leave it there, while you suppose their faces on the other side of the chat and you think about the next thing you will invent when he insists. Because he's going to insist: "I feel that the review that we will extract from that album does not make sense to be written by someone other than you," he will say. Your friend does not know that one night, in one of those concerts that Hayd\u00e9e gave at Mella, you cried. That a stranger by your side saw you and smiled, and that you - even before that voyeurist of your tears - did not feel ashamed to cry. But you already said it, your friend does not know. And in your ignorance you agree. You say yes, you pass the album one of these days, which you hope is good, to which he replies: "The album is from her singing to Pablo, a duet with the best Latin American musicians, all, there is no way to that is bad. "<\/p>\n
Spend a day or two. On Facebook someone shares a YouTube link and says something as cheesy as "this is the most beautiful song in the world." You think there is no such thing. There are songs and moments for those songs. And that, in any case, that is the title of a Sabina song. You laugh You find yourself clicking the link where it reads \u201cYou see - Hayd\u00e9e Milan\u00e9s ft. Silvia P\u00e9rez Cruz \u201d, and listening to the first chords of this single<\/i> that in 1983 Pablo Milan\u00e9s immortalized in Years<\/i>. You remember the first time you heard Silvia when, during her vacation in Havana, the Spanish woman managed to give an intimate concert at the National Museum of Fine Arts Theater. On that occasion, she and Javier Ruibal performed together For your love, the air hurts<\/i>, a poem by Federico Garc\u00eda Lorca that Ruibal himself had dared to musicalize. Never so much sadness was made song.<\/p>\n