And the sixth month resurrected. In the communal payroll of exceptional events that marry the life, work and circumstances of Rafael Martos Sánchez, we will have to score from this Sunday, and in a well -prominent place, his return to the stage after the brain lymphoma that took the first pages of all newspapers in December. Overcome the superlative scare for him and his own, and the soup between lovers of Spanish popular culture and mitoms of diverse fur, the singer of Linares chose a scenario at the height of his imperial figure to communicate to the world the good news of his return.
Tickets were late for sale, for obvious reasons, but on the same Sunday the 3,500 available. And it will be a sympathetic chance, organizational ingenuity or purita irony of fate, but neither the most skilled screenwriter would have imagined a better location than the Roman theater of Mérida to give this nth welcome to the redivressive idol, the man of all the hyperboles, to the pagan god of mannerism. To our particular heritage of humanity, although neither the intuition nor our rudimentary notions of history are enough to predict whether the interpreter of My great night It will continue within two millennia deserving as much admiration as Marco Vipsanio Agrippa, that Roman consul who bequeathed us the stage of Augusta Emerita.
Nor do we know how punctual they were in times of César Augusto, but the universal jienense continues to behave, to his 82 years, as a neat, rigorous, serious, formal and committed to the Tuters with the trade. At 22.15 it was the appointment at the Stone & Music Fest (Oh, the names in English: what cross), still under 31 degrees Celsius as a reminder of the cannula, and that exact time broke into a parsimonious raphael, with the short step and the tarnished look, to formalize the most desired return and surely also the most unheard of. Because at certain ages the breakdowns are bad to repair, but it is seen that this man signed a covenant with some god or devil, who even knows if three bands, so we will enjoy everything that can be of this new and happy extension.
Perhaps he has lost vitality and lozanía, and no longer gives the body to our eternal crooner southern for its classic repertoire of fuss and runaway gestures. Everything cannot be, even among born survivors. But it was to pronounce that of “Your love at night me”, first verse from the old The nighta topic published almost six! decades ago, and the miracle was certified. Because that stingy vocal torrent that amazed for the first time to the pastor of the church of San Antonio, in the Madrid street of Bravo Murillo, remains almost untouched. Against winds, tides and storms. Against prognosis and even against all logic.
“I remain that, despite the doubts,” Raphael proclaimed the second to change, giving those words a transcendent and even metaphysical meaning that its author, José Luis Perales, had probably not imagined back in 1985. And let’s not say when much later, at the time and five minutes of recital, he reissue to chew my youth every second. ” Or when, almost at the edge of midnight, he appealed to the inheritance of Violeta Parra to reinvent, guitar and voice, Thanks to life. They are, in short, so many fortunate triggers of which this great man benefits us that the repertoire is resignifying each decade.
10 versatile and solvent musicians, at times, as in the splendorous deployment of electricity and classicism of My love. But Mr. Martos does not sneak out a single moment or clock after the great instrumental mass. On the contrary: the moments of greatest nudity favor astonishment and emotion. The poise of Amo, with the single piano company and a plañidero violin, but also that of If you weren’t youwrapped only with the arpegios of the electric guitar and the further caress of the cello. Or that of Malenaa tango to voice and piano. To chest discovered.
You can think what you want from its elusive ideological affiliation, of that chameleonic condition that has allowed him Let’s talk about love It is a song. Say what they say. And put themselves as they get. And the same should agree on I was in lovea sixties pop bombone with his proud wink to Day tripper. Or of Be in lovewith which even the youngest of the place, that some there were also, they disliked as if they were a lung capacity test.
Raphael reserved five unappealable zambombazos for the end, five titles that could never aspire to an organization secretariat because they are incorruptible: In living fleshtan optional that the singer seemed about to derail; a What nobody knows With the exacerbated theatricality, the excellent electronic update of I am thatDelirio Bailongo de Scandal and the solemn culmination of Like I love youduring which our protagonist pronounced his only words of the evening: “Ladies, gentlemen, I love you. Good night.”
It wasn’t much, really. But after two hours and four minutes of Trajín, Raphael was waiting for him to return by car, at dawn, to Madrid. A beating for anyone, but … that they take away Dance.
