Surely it was at Discos Brezo, the closest thing I’ve ever seen to the setting of High Fidelity, Nick Hornby’s novel, adapted to film by Stephen Frears. It was on Brezo de Cornellà street. When there were record stores in the neighborhoods. When records were played from start to finish. Side A and side B. And if you wanted to make a playlist, you used the cassette and the double deck to put them in the order you wanted. When Migueli was central to Barça, he wore a mustache and the Camp Nou did not have the last name Spotify.
There were even two record stores in San Ildefonso: Brezo and Cadillac. None exist anymore. If they didn’t have the record you wanted, you could wait a few days or take the metro to Barcelona and spend a fantasy afternoon looking through the stacks of vinyl arranged alphabetically at Discos Castelló or Revólver. But it was in Brezo where I bought my first LP: Camino Soria de Gabinete. And I was not aware of the poison that was getting into my skin.
Then came the recommendations of my cousin Alberto, an influencer when there were no influencers. He gave me records that he no longer listened to. The live show by Sabina and Viceversa, the Journey with us by the Mondragón Orchestra or the first album by Los Toreros Muertos, Los Toreros Muertos por Biafra.
With 15 came the first concert. With my friend Frank. He took his father to some PSUC parties, in Sot del Migdia. Loquillo and Trogloditas presented their live show A por otros, que son otros y cowards, which continues to be one of the best live shows in Spanish rock. 120,000 people without a chic festival bracelet, but with a ticket torn at one end, with the group photo. To frame.
And from there it was a non-stop: Total Sinister in Zeleste, Kiko Veneno in the festivities of the Rose of Sant Feliu, Miguel Bosé in the September Guai de Cornellà, Sabina in the municipal football field of El Prat, or El Último de la Fila in the Plaza de Toros in Tarragona.
I tried to learn some music in the worst possible way. Signing up for music theory and taking an exam at the Conservatori de Bruc with València in Barcelona. But that didn’t work: after four years and repeating three courses, I dropped out. Music became a taboo and I preferred to enjoy it only as a listener or as a spectator.
And I kept buying records and going to concerts. From Extremoduro to Estopa. From Aute to Ismael Serrano. From Juan Luis Guerra to Calle 13. From Antònia Font to Manel. From Rigoberta Bandini to C Tangana.
And when I thought that I would never be able to get up on stage to try it, when I thought that at 40 I had already made all the friends that a life allowed to make, Jacob, Javi, Juan Carlos, Óscar and Jesús, the oldest, crossed my path. That’s why we are The Jesus Children. Two, professional musicians, the others, architect, graphic designer and Renault mechanic. And we began to meet in the basement of the headquarters of the Unión Extremeña de Sant Boi, with a couple of fifths and a great desire to enjoy. Everything was a game, until our friend Víctor asked us if we wanted him to move us some skittles. And since we had nothing to lose, we said yes. And yesterday we went up to the stage that the BBK Festival had set up in El Arenal in Bilbao. And we debuted before 400 people. And we play the songs that have accompanied us all our lives: from the ones we listened to in our teenage room, to the ones we put in the car so that our children could familiarize themselves with our favorite songs.
And the last song is dedicated to Pau Donés. Because it was he who told me before leaving: dare, that you have nothing left to do of what you wanted to do. And there we are, Paul. Tomorrow we play in Donosti. Eskerrik asko, friend.
