One of 'Ours'

Is he one of 'ours'?

This week's Camino a Ítaca takes me back on tour. Back to the days when I literally lived on the road and then zooms to the present and questions just how the regional government sees its citizen. Are you one of 'ours' or not? You can click over and read the original in Spanish or read the English version below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

When I think back to it, it must have been quite the sight. There, in the oil-stained corner of a gas station parking lot, were four long-haired fifteen-year-olds trying their best to play African American music from the 1950s. The Blues had originated 3,000kms away in Mississippi, but here were four young kids trying their best, playing for tips in northern Canada. The music might not have been the best, but something must have worked, because the owner asked us to come back and even gave us some money for doing it and I’ve been playing music professionally ever since.

Music has its ups and down. I’ve had the pleasure to play for thousands of people on some nights, only to play for two drunks the next in some small town in the middle of Nebraska. One day it’s encores and congratulations and the next is a beer bottle thrown at you because you don’t play any country music. It was thanks to my guitar that I first crossed the Atlantic and got my first taste of European life. It was with a band that I first came to Spain back in the early 90s and first realized that it was a place that I would one day like to settle. It’s also from behind my guitar that I have explored remoter corners of Extremadura, from Talarrubias to Pinofranqueado.

I’ve been lucky enough to play with some of those who helped create that music from Mississippi and am thankful to have had the chance to record in some of the great temples of music, like Jimi Hendrix's Electric Ladyland deep in the bowels of the village in New York City. It was a fun ride until one day, the music died.

It happened almost overnight. As the pandemic set in, mini tours and festival bookings from France to the Algarve vanished. A few brave souls have tried to resuscitate our moribund cultural scene, but as you look out from the distant stage to see white masks sitting two meters apart, unable to get a drink, dance or even go to the bathroom, it just doesn’t feel the same. Besides, how can you plan an entire tour when you don’t even know if you’ll be able to leave your house?

Like others, I was glad to see that the Junta then offered a grant to try and help those who had seen their livelihoods disappear and I sent in my application too. In reply, I got a letter saying that I needed a certificate proving that indeed I was an artist. In today’s world where everything can be seen on Facebook, including each and every mistake you make on stage, this seemed a bit Kafkaesque. That said, I suppose it wasn’t as bad as those poor souls who are something declared dead by the administration when they are, in fact, very much alive and kicking. I then read the fine print a little closer and the story morphed into something more sinister, a story more akin to something by Mario Puzo. Not only did I have to prove that I was in fact a musician, but that proof had to be in relation to the regional administration. It didn’t matter if you had played two hundred gigs that year, if you hadn’t worked for them, better luck next time.

Since I began living here, I’d always heard that quien hizo la ley hizo la trampa (literally those who make the laws know how to break them) but I never knew that it was also quien hace la ley certifica la trampa (those who make the law, certify the way to get around them).