Yes, I confess it,
I never liked Fuerza Natural, Cerati's latest soundtrack. It seemed to me as an
average disc, a countryside thing, the nostalgy from an old rocker who feels
the weight of the hanging guitar, a rocker overwhelmed by amplifiers; the work
of a musician whose belly keeps growing, whose hair keeps whitening and who
starts looking back rather than forward, as a little betray that we may only
allow to him. Looking forward was the place where he used to convince us he did
look at. He brought us forward so that we would bring him forward.
We bought tickets
for last Saturday's concert, at the Simón Bolívar University soccer field,
without much expectation, almost like a ritual, because if Cerati comes in one
must go see him. He is like a relative living abroad who comes back every now
and then, so a meeting is tacitly organized to get together, to see each other.
We have received Gustavo for 20 years. We have become old with him, our bellies
have grown with his, we have imposed his sounds to our mothers, brothers,
friends, enemies, girlfriends, sons, exwives, dogs, turtles. Because Cerati's
worst soundtrack is better, by far, than the best soundtrack of 95% of the
other bands currently broadcast. So it was a must-go, even if we would only
say, “this dude is no longer the same. He's old. We're all old.”
But Cerati just
launched the concert of his lifetime. He sent us a truck of music, the best ace
under his deck, an impeccable, memorable, massive and solid thing. Furthermore
it was delivered twice: the black stage and the white stage. The black stage
was powerful, but the white one was undescribable. During the white stage I
pointed out to Claire and my friends: “I feel that he is saying goodbye to us;
this smells like the last time.” And they looked at me with such a face as
“what are you saying? Shut up! Don't bring bad luck and let us enjoy the
concert”. Maybe I don't know how to farewell so I've developed a special smell
to perceive when others mean it. They say goodbye without being conscious about
it, without knowing about it.
Gustavo has always
left us a comment for posterity, a pearl with Buenos Aires hue (halfway between
affectation, poetry and joke), he has always opened the mouth during his
concerts to leave us a memorable statement, a seed rooting within the
collective imagery of those present. “The Polyhedron [Caracas Concert Hall]
tonight... seems like... seems like a parallelepiped”. Another time he signaled
an inflatable dummy, like those advertising things such as Duracell, moving head
and limbs due to a pipe shooting hot air from within; he commented, “Good! Look at this skinny one
dancing!”. He recently came over during December, due to Soda Stereo's
comeback, and said, “This is the first time we come to Caracas and it feels
somewhat cold... it's like global warming upside down...”
Cerati last
Saturday night sounded like never before, he spoke like never before, he drank
from his infinite drink and toasted: “Cheers, for a destroyed world”. He was
nice and witty. One of those night bugs flying toward the light plowed inside
his afro hair in the middle of a song, “a locust got into my head, well at
least there's something in there.” Having noticed that the concert exceeded two
hours and no one would leave, “It's Saturday night, don't you have anything
better to do?”
No, Gustavo, there
was nothing better to do, really. Few opportunities in life are available to
say, “I would remain in this instant for a huge while longer”. If you happen to
live in this Caracas of today, then even less so. Besides you had brought this
choir lady, Gustavo, my God, thanks for the choir lady!
The day after, the
news was everywhere, Cerati had suffered a brain stroke, part of his face was
paralyzed, speech problems, that same night he was rushed to the clinic, he
would remain resting and in critical state during the following days.
It is unavoidable
to feel, at least on my side, that one of our people is hospitalized. This guy
is a friend who has gone to the beach with you, he has endured your love
miseries, he has been with you in drunkenness, in euphoria, you were with him
at both school and college. When you made sure that she preferred Cerati over
Luis Miguel you said, gosh! Then I will go serious with this girl. You can't
avoid to think that you grew up listening to Cerati, quoting Cerati, that there
are as many Ceratis as parts of you during different stages of your life. You
remember who you were when “Signos” was aired, you remember who you went out
with during “Canción Animal”, you remember that day when that really strong
thing happened to you while “Dynamo” was broadcast. Cerati was with you during
summer, during winter, over that bench during autumn, he went with you to the
Great Savannah, to Mérida, to Barcelona, during that traffic jam on the day you
almost died due to the flood over the highway. Some friends left you but they
are always there when “Amor Amarillo” is played, they come back and you tell
them, “wow, how funny, this was so good, some day we'll listen to him together,
anywhere.” Cerati is part of the soundtrack, is part of the stage, is part of
the script, is a supporting actor who has always been there, on the side of the
frame and who at times, more than once, has been the main character as well.
This big-nosed, I
will say with absolute ease and quite shameless, seems a better poet to me than
many official poets with capital P that one should read according to the tenet.
This skinny man is a better storyteller than the great majority of writers
(especially the foreign ones) you may find at any Caracas bookstore. This
big-nosed delivers cartoons with his music. He filmmakes with his music. He
paints pictures with his music. Anyone who likes Cerati knows exactly what I am
talking about.
In an
overpopulated world by a bunch of David Bisbals, Ricardo Montaners, Olga Tañóns
and reggaetoners from all kinds (watch out: you don't have to play reggaeton to
be a reggaetoner) Gustavo is an oasis, a balsam, the noble light at the end of
the tunnel. In music he is the bearer of the undescribable pleasure one gets
while reading Bioy Casares or Cortázar and you say, “dude, these guys are so
great and in your own language”. Gustavo is, finally, one of ours. And there
remain too few of them.
So do us a favor,
Gustavo, you should fully recover, abandon that bed, grab your guitar ang go
create a soundtrack even worse than Fuerza Natural. Because the truth is that I
would rather speak about how you screwed it up and how old you are (so are all
of us) and hopefully the low will be temporary so that on your next soundtrack
you will be sublime again (because there will always be another soundtrack and
you must always come back so that we see you again like every other year), I
prefer that a billion times instead of feeling this deep sadness by just
thinking that you were really saying goodbye in the best concert this country
has ever witnessed. We are sorry but we do not accept your farewell, Gustavo,
you won't go, you'll stay here.
