I may Intermediate. THE LEGEND OF THE KISS It was the first melody with which my subconscious was kneaded, since my father played that piece again and again with the violin or clarinet when I was just a few months old and, as they told me, I went to cats by the dining room and that persistent melody, which went down the staircase from the first house of home, exercised in me a conditioned reflection that forced me to extend a hand trying to reach it. In some bulb of my brain I will still vibrate because sometimes I am surprised by whistling it. But the first song I keep in my memory was titled My paper house.
The melossa voice of singer Jorge Sepúlveda extended on the wagons and the attractions of a fair that was held in the town on the third Sunday of January, feast of the San Sebastian pattern. In the air there was the smell of garapiñada almonds and the oil of the churros. I was getting dark with a polar cold, a very acute twenty wore pringados papers, broken lanterns and I had been left alone in the uncle, mounted in a large white cardboard horse, with golden mane, which climbed and lowered spinning around the world while the singer said: “How happy we will both be, and what sweets the kisses will be.” I was about five years old. What is a life but to go around and go around a cardboard horse until reaching death, which is that moment when the carousel stops.
Next to the house was the Miramar garden, a spa collapsed by war. On summer Sundays at the time of the nap in the shadow of the pines he rehearsed the music band of the town and I heard it from the bed in the middle of a sticky drowsiness that freed you a thread of drool that permeated the pillow. With the breeze that inflated the curtains and the squeak Guillermo Tellby Rossini, with the interruptions, the director’s voices who with a blows of the baton against the facistol warned. “One of the trombones has swallowed a fusa.”
Every day, after the afternoon, a saxophone, trumpet or bombardino sound left to the street to the street. It was some young labrador who after work in the field learned to dominate the instrument and rehearsed, perhaps, the only pasodoble Pepita serious or a fragment of the zarzuela The lavapiés barberillo. In the town, of the Vilavella, there was all kinds of natural sounds in my childhood, which had barely varied from the Middle Ages, the blacksmith’s anvil, the sharpener’s flutin, the cry of some buhonero, the barking of the dogs, the zureo of the palomos, the birds on the roof, the whisper of the horses, the bells of the church that played to Mass, In the midst of these agricultural sounds it was that of the Santa Cecilia music band that I carry in the memory full of parade, concerts, processions and serenades.
One day I left all those sounds behind. Over time from the town he received a phone call. “Do you know who is dead?” Next, that voice pronounced a name. He was a childhood friend. The same thing happened in the movie Paradise Cinema. “You should come to burial. I loved you very much. I always talked about you.” When I started writing it was very difficult for me to avoid the music I had heard as a child and that formed a sound landscape of my memory. It was enough to name in some paragraph a song that was popular to attend the miracle that time contracted around his melody that in turn transported all emotions and feelings of an era. I have associated the music of the movie Footlights To the desire that he kept being a writer, Renato Carosone and Doménico modugno to the Italian music of the San Remo Festival that came wrapped with the first summer loves and finally over all the music of my childhood and youth suddenly Sinatra was swept by Elvis Presley with the cry that was at a jungle howls, prayer and lament that opened the path of the jazz, of the soul.
The Espiriru of the Villavella Music Band is held by Joaquín Mechaó, my dear companion in the rural school, his nephew Pablo is still maintained and Daniel Moliner is directed. Among them they have set up a tribute concert with part of the music that is in my books and has vertebrate my literature. Let me thank you from here. Those melodies that have sounded on summer night, had included parades, parties, post -war stories, pleasures and misfortunes, naps with the breeze of the spa pines and the sea with all its sounds.