By José Gandue @Gandour
To my family, to my old friends who showed up just in time, to Maria Camila and Yorvis
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This was a strange, turbulent, and tumultuous year, but despite everything, I don't know if I would call it bad. However, according to the first doctor who saw me at the end of February and urgently called an ambulance to take me to the hospital, he told the person accompanying me not to be surprised if I didn't survive the trip. At that moment, lying on an uncomfortable stretcher, I was just joking and remembering The Ramones, whispering I want to be sedated. I don't think anyone heard me. I'm sure some awkward character among those around me would have said that it wasn't the time to play at looking punk.
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I spent a month and a half at the Marly clinic. During that time the entire hospital system managed to disrupt my sleep pattern. During almost forty-five days of care, I don't think I managed to sleep a total of 40 hours. If I moved even slightly, the catheter would trigger a maddening alarm that would bring a nurse in to check every little thing about my body. If I managed to get any sleep, there was a rigid work structure that would interrupt my rest to bring a forgotten medication or an unpleasant thermometer at any hour. I remember one day a friend came to visit, and while he asked me the same old, but silly, questions about my health, I took the opportunity to sleep without even apologizing.. Luckily he understood and stayed checking his cell phone, suspecting that if he left, some uniformed officer would come to bother him about anything.
The soundtrack of those days was composed by Nina Simone and Johann Sebastian Bach. Especially from the latter, the Goldberg Variations. I don't know if you know the story behind these compositions: According to Bach's biographer, Johann Nikolaus Forkel (I'm quoting this almost verbatim from Wikipedia), the variations were commissioned from Bach by Count Hermann Carl von Keyserlingk, to entertain him during his sleepless nights. The count generously rewarded Bach with a gold cup containing one hundred gold louis d'oeuvres, the equivalent of 500 thalers, almost a year's salary as a kantor of the Thomaskirche. I, frankly, expected the same effect, without having paid the corresponding fees. I adore Bach, but it's clear, unlike what was happening to me at that time, that the Count didn't have to endure an army of constantly vigilant healthcare workers behind him. My first deep sleep of at least six hours straight only came a month after I left the Marly, thanks to a medicine that Von Keyserlingk didn't know about at the time., Tramadol.
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In general, I'm not a big fan of the feeling that nostalgia brings. That's why, paradoxically, I've been timidly moving away from what some shelf-shelved experts call Rock. In other words, don't get me wrong: the constant soundtrack of my life contains many classics. My permanent playlist includes many examples of the Motown sound., I listen to Hendrix from time to time, The music produced in Manchester during the eighties and nineties (The Smiths, New Order, The Stone Roses, The Charlatans UK) resonates constantly on the stereo, and many of my favorite songs from my time as a political science student at the Complutense University of Madrid (Los Ronaldos, Loquillo y Los Trogloditas, among others) occasionally come to mind. But the nostalgia contained in rock music is regressive. I dislike that spirit of insisting on the discourse that claims that all past times were better. Of course, while I was strapped to my bed, I thought it would be great if, instead of having to relearn how to walk, I were already jumping around just like I did at the concerts I attended five, ten, twenty, or thirty years ago in Buenos Aires, Tel Aviv, or even Bogotá, screaming at the top of my lungs the songs of Peter Gabriel, the Sex Pistols, or Nine Inch Nails, remembering the good old days of Superlitio or wishing to relive that magical night of The Ganjas at Rock al Parque 2005. But I immediately understood that I wasn't going to heal by longing for a youth that was already beyond redemption. Rock, conceived in that way by some radicals who want to mishandle time, has lost its meaning for me. Thankfully, the Rock I want is much broader than what some rhythm fascists want to impose on us. It's far more evolved, rich, and varied than what some idiots try to sell us with their labels. In my mind, Bomba Estéreo or Rubio are just as much rock as Pearl Jam or Stone Temple Pilots. Luckily, too, as Los Prisioneros would say, in our own way, in these beautiful times of cultural fusion, We are South American Rockers.
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A few years ago I mentioned in an article that There are songs that hurt me so much they make me cry. And that's one of the best feelings I can experience in my life. I adore that musical sadness. I can't help but feel that way when I listen to Tom Waits's very particular version of the unofficial Australian anthem, Waltzing Matilda, call Tom Traubert's Blues. It's as if someone were putting their hand between my chest and stomach and reminding me with sweet sadism that I'm still alive, that I still have sensitive insides, that this pain proudly belongs to me. Well, this year I felt that again, and it fascinated me. It happened to me with Rosalía.
Flamenco has always intrigued me, ever since my student days in Spain. But I never, foolishly, allowed myself to explore it deeply. I listened to Camarón de la Isla with respect, but I must admit that I had some inexplicable apprehension. I knew that behind all that sound there were fascinating stories, much to hear, much to read. I went down other paths, and perhaps I missed an unparalleled opportunity. Discovering the work of the Catalan artist Rosalía put me back on that path. The first thing I heard was her debut album, Los Angeles. Arrive Catalina. That song was tearing me apart, with its incomplete words and tangled accent, saying:
«"Get out of my presence
You're torturing me
Get out of my sight
You're torturing me
My memory is now bringing me back
Things I was forgetting
My memory is now bringing me back
Things I was forgetting (sic)»
I had to listen to that album about five or six times that afternoon. I cried that day like I hadn't cried in all this time. It was a feeling of relief that definitely healed me in the way I needed. Music saves, music heals. A little girl, a beautiful young woman in her early twenties, dressed in a tracksuit and flashy jewelry, was singing in my ear until I was forced to let out all the crap I was holding inside and feel relieved. Because of her, I eagerly awaited November 2nd for the full release of her album. The Bad Will. And even though it was definitely more "contemporary," I was still impressed. And I adore, for obvious reasons, Badly y I think of your gaze, his most popular songs, but I return to that beautiful pain when I listen Baghdad y Nana. If there is a god, which I almost always doubt, Rosalía is a necessary example of her sporadic kindness towards us humans.
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2019? First of all, I hope to still be alive and with the enthusiasm I feel right now. Zonagirante.com will celebrate its 20th anniversary. We'll find a way to survive and celebrate our existence properly. We will remain committed to Latin America and eager to develop many things that we will surely achieve during the 365 days ahead. As I said at the beginning, I am grateful for all the support from my family and the true friends who stood by me. It wasn't an easy year, but I don't think it was bad at all. The changes that had been postponed for a while finally began, and luckily, music was always there for me. Thank you all for being there. Have a wonderful future and I hope you surround yourselves with songs that will bring you joy.
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A little gift courtesy of Spotify. These seem to be the songs I listened to most this year: