I think Joaquín Sabina feels safe now that he is heading for more than 70 years. It was unlikely that he reached such a sophisticated age, perhaps the closest degree to immortality that you can expect from some very gifted beings for life. In Sabina it fits more than a singer-songwriter or lyricist. It is of those types capable of regretting some things, but only after having done them. Around its themes several generations come together that, upon hearing it, release fluids of nostalgia and desires to return to the age of the estraperlo . Sabina is a consolidated red , undergoing tobacco training that has never disguised contrary ideas. He moves with a tool of laughter with a lot of teeth, but inside he shines a frosted wound that usually shatters in his songs. It is the same scratch that we all carry, in our own way. And there we get together.
He knows that nothing comes later, nor before. That is why his lyrics remain standing. In them he gives a quiet time where each one freely clears his memory, his frustration, his secrets, his appetite for something else, his desire for more. And in the affairs of memory it is already known that each one drags his own damage seeking accomplices along the way. His lyrics are always born from a normal situation turned upside down. More or less like life. In the middle of this quagmire (politics is a dirty trade) some Sabina records can be an antidote against neurosis, against disappointment and daily degradation. We could say that nothing has changed since then. That terrible suspicion.
Today they happen as an appointment with the psychiatrist. Much of the country lives pissed off full time. Nobody trusts anyone. Too much saber noise. We have balm: shut up for a while, read more time, listen to some Sabina songs remembering those years when the prestige of living was to make it slow and the rush was discarded as the most vulgar part of time. But none of this is easy.
Sabina exists against such urgent urgency. He does it in Madrid. In the neighborhood almost always. Surrounded by cats with mane. Unsure of each song, surely. Aware that writing is a way of being quiet talking to others, and not falling into reluctance, and not accepting everything. Recently, I don't know where, some Sabina sounded at a time of the night, and the night didn't come. That's what I mean. Recovering some emotions is a beautiful conspiracy. There are lyrics that still teach you to be like one day you went. And then you feel safe. And something is relieved. And you would like to come back.
According to the criteria of The Trust Project
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