Published
Shit.
Ruido Necesario.
My turn at last. How to face the abyss of writing about music, me, Damián Manzano, neither a writer, nor a critic, nor a DJ.
I don’t know much about music, and even less when I weigh myself against any of them. But despite my ignorance, when the notes start playing I can feel as much as anyone, or more, however devoted a music lover they may be. When I cook alone in my flat and put a track on, my blood starts racing and I dance to the frantic rhythms of countless bands, and there, right there, I’m happy. There I don’t feel inferior to any expert, however many guitar or producer names they know that mean nothing to me.
Now, what to write about?
What’s drilling into my head right now, who is it, who are they?
El Columpio Asesino.
Fuck, “Huir”.
It gives me goosebumps from the moment my only two neurons short-circuit. Atrium and ventricle pumping blood. There’s no turning back, nothing will be the same again.
I don’t know what “Álbaro (spelt with a ‘b’) and Cristina” mean. My interpretation, as someone with a way with words and a tendency to idealise scenarios:
“We had something, something big for me, but you broke it, even though I’m still here. Little by little I adjusted, cast your presence out of my life, it’s no longer what it was, I’m no longer who I was.
You come back looking for something, something that will hurt me and that I couldn’t turn down, but luckily I learnt, turned the page.
I know your tricks: flowers? Are you married? You’re back? Accept what you are, I know you.
What do you think you’ll find here? Not anymore. (Or maybe you will).
I know where you’re coming from, you’ve run out of doors to knock on, mine has closed although, if I give myself some distance, I might enjoy it. But it’s not worth it for me, or is it?
Fuck you, don’t try to use me, or could I do that to you?”.
Eighties-style lines that make you wonder whether it’s worth letting someone have power over your life. Or perhaps it’s time for the despot to be you?
When lyrics meant something.