Thursday, February 2

Noise

There was a time when Sabina was a skinny that you could find anywhere. despues de of the time looking for caliche. Under the bluish light of the toilets she was writing the last verse of his next song. He had a broken voice from so much tango, Ducats and dark glasses that protected him from the damn morning sun. Those things.

I remember that it was one winter, in the mid-90s, when he took the stage of the Palacio de los Deportes in Madrid for a concert in support of indigenous peoples. The concert had been organized by the poet José Agustín Goytisolo and had the participation of Aute, Paco Ibáñez, Burning, Juan Perro and the actor Juan Diego, among others. Sabina appeared on stage with Pancho Varona to interpret an unpublished song that spoke of a breakup. The unfortunate aroma of disenchantment was contained in that song that was titled Noise and that, months later, would appear on the album this mouth is mine with choirs by Javier Ruibal. Enormous.

I had met Joaquín many years before, in the mid-eighties. I remember that he gave me a large bill, one of the five thousand pesetas, in exchange for his first record with which he was not satisfied, and which he wanted to avoid at all costs, even paying, to have it broadcast on the station where I worked. In those days, Sabina lived near the Doré cinema, an old rental apartment where she had a phrase by Scott Fitzgerald written in the corridor: “I speak from the authority that failure gives me.” It was Sabina, and no other, who made me fond of the American novel, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Hemingway and, of course, Chandler and Hammett.

He had shaved his beard, wore jackets with shoulder pads, and had stopped singing to the decency of the proletarian struggle. He was no longer a singer-songwriter to use. His new songs dealt with topics as indecent as mattress stains, semen from hanged men, and civil wedding nights. The characters that populated his literature were types of dangerous life, those who move on the edge of a knife capable of cutting the night in two. He always told me that he wouldn’t know how to take a step on stage without Pancho Varona, his closest brother, the guitarist who helped electrify his course.

Looking back, I also remember a Sabinera night in the Galileo room, when I asked Pancho about that song that always seemed so elegant to me, that song that spoke of a couple in a state of decomposition and how the wound turns love into noise . Then Pancho told me that, initially, that song titled Noise It wasn’t a song, it was leftover lyrics that Pedro Guerra gave to Pancho, “let’s see if it works for you”. Then it was otherwise. Pancho made the music and when he took it to Joaquín, he changed the lyrics, leaving the first verse, and he also changed the music. He did a rumba, “a rumba but with a tuxedo”, Pancho told me.

At first, Pedro Guerra’s lyrics read as follows:

She asked him to take her to the end of the world

He could only take her to the edge of the sea

And in the end, together they reached an end of so many directions

In these days that the Sabina-Varona couple has broken the script, the noise has settled in the media. And with the noise has come the positioning and the slashing, taking cuts to the good of Leiva; without eating or drinking it. And it is that there are people who do not know the law of the street well, the same law that those of the bofia apply when two choris are killing each other. They know that if they intervene, the choris will unite against the policeman. For getting where they don’t call him. With these things, I hope that Pancho and Joaquín fix it soon and that they put so nosy idiots to dance the rock’n roll, to put it like a sudaca.



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