By José Gandue @Gandour
Let's see, little one: I know that at your age you hardly believe a man who has turned 67. They suspect his days of brilliance are long past, especially when they notice his voice has aged somewhat, his movements have slowed, and there's a certain awkwardness in his mannerisms. It's easy to denigrate anyone like that, they think. Others, a little more respectful, are surprised that this same man once jumped from a ninth-floor window and survived. And that, likewise, was not the most dangerous moment of his existence. This same man has survived his worst periods, his own decline, through a few decades filled with trivialities and misplaced honors, and perhaps that's why we sometimes indulge in the pointless luxury of looking down on him. Anyway, kid, wipe the drool from your mouth and stop spouting so much nonsense from your phone and greet with high regard one of the people who invented all this. His name is Charly García, and if it weren't for him and a few others, what they call Rock wouldn't have worked around here. It's time you shut up and remember where it all really came from.
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I've seen him in concert several times. One of the best occasions was in Madrid, in the eighties. Miguel Ríos decided to show the Spanish that Latin American rock was more vibrant than they imagined, and he created an Ibero-American music festival. The night opened with the Venezuelan band Zapato 3, whom the audience didn't notice for a second. Then the Palacio de los Deportes erupted with the sensation of the moment on the Iberian Peninsula: El Último de la Fila. I don't know if you remember them, but they were a great mix of guitar-driven music with flamenco flourishes. They were a huge hit on the radio, and the audience adored them. As soon as they finished, half the crowd ran out. It was clear that the hosts weren't there to listen to Latin artists. Then Charly came in. Imagine the ironic laugh of the two-toned mustache when he found himself in a half-empty coliseum. It was then, as soon as he sat down, that he grabbed the microphone and shouted «"Are there any South Americans in the audience?". Of course, the few thousand of us who remained responded forcefully. The Spanish missed out, poor them.
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I've told this story before. Never mind, I'll tell it again: One of my favorite love (and heartbreak) songs is I feel much better. It's a cover that Charly does of a hit from the sixties (I'll feel a whole lot better, (by The Byrds). Even so, the version is so well done that it sounds like their own. It's included on their album. Cheap philosophy and rubber shoes And a copy, on cassette, was in a friend's Fiat 147. One night he asked me to go with him to drop something off for his girlfriend. Things were bad between them, and it was clear that he was going to see her to try, without much chance, to see how the matter could be resolved. Upon arrival, he asked me, for obvious reasons, to stay in the car, telling me, without much conviction, that he wouldn't be long, that he was just going to drop off a small gift and nothing more.
The cassette started to rotate and I decided to submit to a somewhat cruel game which was to see how many times I would play the same song while my friend returned. I calculated that they wouldn't go beyond 6 repetitions, a little less than half an hour. I was also wrong about the outcome of the mission. I felt optimistic and imagined my friend returning with a smile, as if everything were resolved, stating that she undoubtedly still loved him and that it had all been a trivial setback.
Disappear
When you were supposed to be
You started running
What you did to me
It is unforgivable.
And I know that I feel
Much stronger without your love»)
An hour and a half later he returned, and it was clear he had been crying. He didn't say so, but it was obvious that, once she closed the door, he had stayed on the stairs and that between his lament and his attempts to hide his grief, She had taken the time to try to clean her face, believing she could then disguise her bitterness. Seeing him arrive at the car full of doubts, I turned off the music.
(«"A long time ago
You made me feel
That our love was more
And that's how I lived
I don't know who I am anymore.
What are you laughing at?
And now I know that I feel
Much stronger without your love»)
He got in and told me, without saying anything else, that he was taking me home. It was early, the perfect time to go to a bar and have a few beers, but without asking me, he dropped me off at my apartment and probably went back home. I doubt he even turned on the radio on the way. I doubt he was able to verify that night that Charly sang for people like him in situations like this.
(«"I don't know what else to do."
I don't know what to say
When you were supposed to be
You burst out laughing
What you did to me
It is unforgivable.
And now I know that I feel
Much stronger without your love
And I know that I feel
Much stronger without your love
Oh, without your love»)
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Most hotels in Bogotá refused to accommodate the artist. Few were willing to risk having one or more of their rooms destroyed, and although there was insurance that covered such eventualities, the companies didn't want to go through such an experience. A friend of mine was his manager for a couple of years and says that, to be honest, his body couldn't easily handle that experience. She said Charly was a capricious child. If he had a craving, any craving, he had to rush to get it done, even if it meant putting up with some truly epic tantrums. But in Bogotá, he had a happy wish, one that few witnessed. Charly, bored in his room, He told my friend that he needed to play on a real piano, He had to sort things out however he could. We're talking about nine o'clock at night, and the truth is, there were very few options available. Bogotá isn't Buenos Aires, where you can find adult theaters with grand pianos and a deliciously decadent atmosphere. The artist needed to play almost like a junkie needs his fix. You couldn't just tell him. «"Hey, drink this bottle of scotch and wait until tomorrow."». Through sheer desperation, a jazz bar in the north of the city, a not-too-crowded place with a rather bored clientele, suddenly saw a van arrive carrying a large entourage of rockers, their breath reeking of whiskey, ready to hijack the bar's keyboards for a few hours. Those who witnessed it say that Charly played everything from Beatles covers to his own material, heavily improvised. Those who saw him (and there were few, believe me, since it wasn't the time of cell phones, WhatsApp, YouTube, or Instagram) They claim it was one of the best musical nights of their lives. My friend, the manager, also quit after only a few months of working there.
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In 2012, Charly García played at Rock al Parque. It wasn't one of his best performances, to be honest. He had only been released from the hospital a few weeks earlier, and few thought he would survive the ordeal. On stage he looked tired, pale, and suffering from the city's altitude. That said, her repertoire was elegant, and she sang almost all the songs the audience expected. But that wasn't the image her fans wanted to see. Since then, if I'm not mistaken, she hasn't returned to Colombia. They say that, at 67, she is doing very well and looks much better. It's about time we brought him back. I don't think he's in the mood to demolish hotels or jump from great heights to scare his fans anymore. Charly García, regardless of his high points and mistakes, remains a genius and still has the luxury of making the kind of great music that many of his colleagues wouldn't achieve in a lifetime. He's like Maradona and others of his ilk: An imperfect god, a funny one, with dangerously irresponsible moments and many hours of genius that have made this world a better place. That, little one, is no small feat, so be grateful that we have this man on this planet. I hope we have him with us for a long time to come.