José, Paco and Antonio
They were listening to music at Lily's house.
"Well, you're the boss, Severus," said Peter, who was still standing, putting the record away.
"Do you know what I really want to hear?" he asked. "To know what Spanish sounds like. Do you have any music in Spanish, Peter?"
"Of course I do, and yes, I think it's a very good choice. I'm going to play you some flamenco, which is a unique genre in the world. Pure popular music, learned by ear and through oral tradition by very humble people, the vast majority of whom are gypsies, a very minority ethnic group. Voice, guitar and clapping, you're going to be amazed. They also have their own dance that is danced to this music. The bad thing is that I don't have the lyrics translated into English, because it's only published there. The records I have are also imported, but from Spain."
"It doesn't matter, play it anyway, some songs, so we know how it sounds."
Peter was looking for a record, taking it out of the cover and passing it to him, while he said, "The current leading exponents of the genre, both very young and who I am sure will make it an international success over the years, with the new opening of Spain to the world. We are privileged to be among the first to hear them. Paco de Lucía, a guitarist since he was eleven years old, and José Monje, Camarón de la Isla, a gypsy singer since he could remember."
"He has long hair, like you," Hippolyta told him.
"True," said Sev.
"I'll put the record on from the beginning until we get tired, this is more monotonous and hard to listen to," warned Lily's father. "You should know that within flamenco there are many genres called 'palos', each with a different rhythm and harmony and different lyrical themes."
"Are the lyrics in Spanish?"
"Yes, they are."
"Then I'm going to try to read it while I listen to it to get used to the pronunciation," said Sev. "I want to learn Spanish."
"I don't recommend you do it with this one, you can't understand him well, he slurs his words a lot and makes a lot of voice turns, and he also has a very strong accent from the south, Andalusia, which is the birthplace of flamenco. Better just enjoy listening, pay attention to the music and the feeling they put into it. Later if you want I'll play you more music in Spanish that's more appropriate."
"Okay."
Peter put the needle on the record, which was already spinning. He sat down as the song began.
"Wow... what a guitar..." admired Sev.
"Very virtuoso, and all by ear and oral tradition, huh?" said Peter. "I think this is impossible to put into written music."
"And what a pace it has."
"A bulería, a very complex rhythm, with twelve beats, two bars of three beats and three bars of two beats, and at full speed," explained the man. "I've already told you that it is also danced, marking the rhythm with the feet, with the clicking of the heels."
"Wow…"
"Listen to the clapping that has just started."
"What a march," commented Sev.
"Party music, gypsy weddings are outrageous."
He began to sing.
Si te vas a confesar
Si te vas a confesar
No digas nunca a las ducas
Que me haces de pasar
Si te vas a confesar
Tú no digas primero las ducas
Que tú me haces de pasar
"It's quite a lament…" commented Sev.
"Of course it is. They are an ethnic group oppressed for centuries, all over the world," explained Peter.
"And this is party music?"
"That's how they understand it."
"He sings with a lot of feeling and has an amazing voice," admired Sev.
"Another true genius. He will give a lot to talk about, both him and the guitarist, I'm sure of it."
Ay, ay, tú no me des tanto que hacer
Ay, tú no me des tanto que hacer
Que como coja la puerta
Nunca más me vas a ver
"What a contrast the lament of the voice with the pace of the music, and yet they complement each other perfectly. It's amazing, I'm more and more amazed by Spain," said Sev.
"A country with a fascinating culture and history," opined Lily's father.
Ay yo soy aquel probe caminante
Que con su petate siempre a cuestas va
Yo voy andando camino adelante
Siempre buscando dónde descansar
Mío, ¡Qué mala suerte!
Mío, ¡Qué mala suerte!
La he tenido que dejar
Por el hablar de la gente
"Wooow… the way he sings, with that broken voice, it's amazing, I love it," commented Sev.
Ay tú no me des, ay tú no me des complicaciones
Ay no me des complicaciones
Que cuando tú abres la boca es para pares y nones
Lai lo lo lei lo
Lai lo lo lei lo
Lai lo lo lei lo
"He's not saying anything anymore, he's just improvising with loose syllables," explained Peter.
"True, but he still puts a lot of feeling into it."
Lo lai lo lei lo
Lai lo lo lei lo
Lai lo lo lei lo
Lai lo lo lei lo
Lai lo lo lei lo
The song ended and the next one began.
Ay…
La vida que Dios me ha dao
La vida que Dios me ha dao
Sin querer me estás quitando
La vida que Dios me ha dao
¿Cómo le vas a pedir a Dios
que perdone tus pecaos?
"This is a soleá, the same rhythm but much slower," explained the older man.
"Oh…"
Reniego haberte encontrao
Reniego haberte encontrao
Te cruzaste en mi camino
Reniego haberte encontrao
Pero contigo aprendí
A caminar con cuidao
Que el mundo es una mentira
Cuantas veces yo he pensao
Que el mundo es una mentira
Que el mundo es una mentira
Cuantos quisieran tener
Pa comer lo que otros tiran
Le pido yo a Dios
Que si algo malo he hecho
Tenga de mí compasión
"It's amazing, huh?" said Sev. "I'm loving it."
"Of course," said Peter.
"I can't wait to start learning Spanish right now to know what the lyrics mean. Next week I'm looking for a teacher and I've already thought of how. The daughter of a client of my mother has immigrant friends who work very precariously, it would be good to give them some extra by taking classes with them."
"Very good idea," said Alice. "I'm in, Prince, we'll pay for the classes between the two of us."
"I want to too…" said Hipólita.
"If they live in Cokeworth you can take the classes here, at the dining room table," suggested Peter. "Also, by learning Spanish you'll also make progress on your own with Portuguese. They are two Latin languages that developed in the same geographical area, they have a lot of vocabulary in common. What changes the most is the pronunciation, and you already get that from the songs."
"True, otherwise, we'll also look for a Portuguese immigrant," suggested Sev.
"There are plenty of them, from all over the Mediterranean. If you can't find them through your mother, put up ads in shops, at the market, with your phone number, and you'll surely find one right away."
"Okay."
The next song had already started a while ago, but Sev hadn't lost it thanks to his double stream of thought. "What an amazing guitar that started this one."
"Of course."
Ay…
Que nadie vive sin ella
La vida es una ilusión
Que nadie vive sin ella
Y no tiene solución
Porque es como una estrella
Que jamás nadie alcanzó
Te di cariño y calor
Cuando yo a ti te conocí
Te di cariño y calor
Y al final me convencí
Que fue una equivocación
La que yo contigo sufrí
"It's enough for me today, huh?" said Sev. "It's too meaningful, it's starting to upset me."
"Okay," said Peter. He immediately stood up, stopped the record player at the beginning of the next track and put the record away as he said, "So, if you start with Spanish now, wait a while to find out what the lyrics mean, because I suspect that they almost certainly go along with the feeling they convey," the man recommended.
"True," said Sev.
"Or maybe the opposite, it will help you channel it like they do."
"Of course, I hadn't thought of that."
"That's why I also played you the ones by Elis and Tom which were also sad," explained Lily's father. "Did they make you feel bad?"
"Not at all."
"It all depends on the moment you're living it. Being alone might not suit you, but right now you're very covered up, so it seems convenient to me."
"True, me too," agreed Sev.
"What else do we listen to?"
"That music you have in Spanish whose lyrics are understandable."
"Let me explain, let's see what you think of the proposal, maybe it's not the best for tonight, judge for yourself, and so can the others," Peter began. "I've been wanting to share with you, ever since I heard about your feat at Hogwarts, two albums by a Spanish singer-songwriter who has been successful internationally. I'll tell you the story of this singer-songwriter. Opposed to the Franco regime, he dared to challenge it when he was chosen to represent Spain at the Eurovision Song Conquest."
"What is the Eurovision Song Conquest?"
"A song festival held in Europe, jointly organised by the television channels of all countries. Each country competes with a song and the winning country is in charge of organising it the following year."
"Wow... how interesting," said Sev.
"Not at all, they present real rubbish."
Everyone laughed.
"He made the condition that he would only sing it if he did it in his mother tongue, Catalan," explained the man. "He is from Barcelona."
"Oh… I'm reading Orwell's 'Homage to Catalonia'."
"I've read it too, we have it, another gem, we'll talk about it another time. I'll tell you more about this singer-songwriter. Of course, they didn't let him do it and the song was sung by a girl in Spanish, Massiel, who did it very well, but nothing like how he would have done it. He's a true genius, he plays the guitar, composes the music, writes the lyrics, puts music to poems by other authors, he has a wonderful and very, very peculiar voice. But most importantly, he's politically committed, like many other Spanish and Latin American singer-songwriters, there's a whole musical movement for freedom."
"Wow… Of course I want to hear that," Sev agreed.
Peter began to look for the records.
"Do you have the lyrics translated?" Sev asked him.
"They're, I'm telling you that this was published here, because he has been internationally successful," Peter answered.
"Great."
"The records in question are not entirely his, they are poems set to music by two poets who died shortly after the end of the Spanish Civil War."
"Oh... yes…"
"One of them, Antonio Machado, from Seville, from the south, who died a few days after going into exile in a town in the south of France, sick and severely depressed for having to leave the country he loved so much and to which he had sung, to its landscape and its people, throughout his life," explained Lily's father. "The other, Miguel Hernández, an Alicante native, specifically from Orihuela, a town in the east of Spain, very close to the Mediterranean. The story of this poet is to die for. It will stir your stomach, do you want me to tell you about it?"
"Tell me."
"He was born very poor, he left school in his childhood to work as a shepherd, but he continued to train as a man of letters thanks to a priest from his town who was his mentor during his youth. Still not out of poverty, he travelled to Madrid, where despite living on loan in very precarious conditions, he got into contact with the cream of the Spanish intellectuality, all of them gentlemen from good families, in the thirties, those of the Republic. Faithful to his origins, he did not let himself be trapped by the fatuous people of the capital and returned to his town to marry his lifelong girlfriend. But when the war broke out in 1936, he fought in his own way, as a propagandist and by creating a theatre group that toured the front to encourage the troops."
"Wow…"
"Meanwhile he wrote plays and poems that had to do with freedom and what was happening," continued Peter. "When the war ended his intellectual friends were able to help him go into exile and he was on the verge of doing so, but they caught him and imprisoned him."
"Ugh…"
"Even before that, during the war, he had had and lost a son, at eight months old."
"Ugh…"
"His wife became pregnant again shortly before he went to prison," continued the man. "He never got to know his second son, who did survive, because he died, in 1941, at the age of thirty-one, of tuberculosis, still in prison."
"Oh…"
"And yet, he wrote poems to his wife and son from prison, real gems, while they were starving. He channeled all his misfortunes through art, that one did go through the crucible without burning, like you."
"I want to listen to and read that," said Sev.
"Both albums, or should I make a selection for you?"
"Play some Antonio Machado and a lot of Miguel Hernández."
"Okay. Here we go with Antonio Machado then, with the music and voice of Joan Manuel Serrat," announced Lily's father. "We'll save the best for last."
"Great."
Peter played the Machado album with music by Serrat and handed him the cover. "Take out the booklet yourself," he said. "For the rest of you, enjoy the music and the voice, it's not wasted either, we'll listen to it and read it with everyone throughout the summer."
"We can read it with Alice too, Prince," suggested Hippolyta.
"Sure, sure…"
Peter announced, "First track, 'Cantares'. Let me know when you have it."
"I have it."
"So here it goes."
Todo pasa y todo queda
Pero lo nuestro es pasar
Pasar haciendo caminos
Caminos sobre la mar
Nunca perseguí la gloria
Ni dejar en la memoria
De los hombres mi canción
Yo amo los mundos sutiles
Ingrávidos y gentiles
Como pompas de jabón
Me gusta verlos pintarse
De sol y grana volar
Bajo el cielo azul temblar
Súbitamente y quebrarse
Nunca perseguí la gloria…
Caminante son tus huellas el camino y nada más
Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar
Al andar se hace camino, y al volver la vista atrás,
Se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar
Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar
"Wooow… what a change of music, this is so cool, and the lyrics are spectacular," thought Sev.
Hace algún tiempo, en ese lugar
Donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos
Se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar
Caminante no hay camino
Se hace camino al andar
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso
Murió el poeta lejos del hogar
Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino
Al alejarse le vieron llorar
Caminante no hay camino
Se hace camino al andar
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso
Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar
Cuando el poeta es un peregrino
Cuando de nada nos sirve rezar
Caminante no hay camino
Se hace camino al andar
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso
Peter stopped the record player. "What do you think?" he asked them.
"The bomb, the bomb…" Sev exclaimed. "I want to play and sing this, this is what I will learn Spanish with."
"And me, and me," said Alice. "It's amazing. Did you like the lyrics, Hippolyta?"
"I loved them, yes I did, I didn't say anything because I didn't want to miss a word, and the music too, and how he sings, everything, everything, I want to sing it too," answered the girl.
"And what do the rest of you say about the music?" asked Peter.
"Amazing," replied Jack.
"I say the same," agreed Sirius. "What strength."
"I loved it too," said Remus.
"And me, and me," said Cecile.
"It's very hopeful," Lily opined. "Like 'Waters of March'. I'm going to play them when I get depressed to cheer myself up."
"I'm not saying anything because I've been listening to it since they told us, Dad," said Petunia. "You haven't stopped playing those two records."
"But you haven't told me if you liked them," said her father.
"I like it, I do."
"So, nobody minds if we continue with this, right? I assure you that you won't get bored, Serrat is anything but monotonous."
"One question, Peter, the second part of the song is not a poem, right?" said Sev. "It's the poet's own story."
"Indeed, very well captured, but the rest of the album except for one song is all poems, huh?"
"Well, the singer-songwriter also writes great."
"Of course, he's a real genius, and he's very young," explained the man. "He's not even thirty yet and he's been doing this since before he was twenty."
"Well... then go on, Peter, go on."
"We'll listen to his own albums too, I have everything I've managed to gather."
"Great."
"Let's go with the third track, 'Guitar of the Inn', 'Guitarra del Mesón'," announced Peter.
"We have it."
Peter put the needle down and turned on the record player.
Guitarra del mesón que hoy suenas jota
Mañana petenera
Según quien llega y tañe
Las empolvadas cuerdas
Guitarra del mesón de los caminos
No fuiste nunca ni serás poeta
Tú eres alma
Que dice su armonía solitaria
A las almas pasajeras
Y siempre que te escucha el caminante
Sueña escuchar un aire de su tierra
Guitarra del mesón que hoy suenas jota
Mañana petenera
Según quien llega y tañe
Las empolvadas cuerdas
Guitarra del mesón de los caminos
No fuiste nunca ni serás poeta
"Prince, Prince… the guitar, what I'm going to play to sing alone…" said Hippolyta.
"Of course, honey."
"Well, I'm going to learn this one too."
"Here goes track six," announced Peter. "You're not going to like this one very much, perhaps because it's religious, but it's worth it because of the passion it exudes, it's impressive."
"Come on, Peter, it doesn't matter," said Sev.
"'La Saeta'. Do you have it?"
"We have it."
"There it goes."
Dijo una voz popular
¿Quién me presta una escalera para subir al madero
Para quitarle los clavos a Jesús el Nazareno?
Oh… La saeta, el cantar
Al Cristo de los gitanos
Siempre con sangre en las manos
Siempre por desenclavar
Cantar del pueblo andaluz
Que todas las primaveras
Anda pidiendo escaleras
Para subir a la cruz
Cantar de la tierra mía
Que echa flores
Al Jesús de la agonía
Y es la fe de mis mayores
Oh, no eres tú mi cantar
No puedo cantar ni quiero
A ese Jesús del madero
Si no al que anduvo en la mar
Oh, no eres tú mi cantar
No puedo cantar ni quiero
A ese Jesús del madero
Si no al que anduvo en la mar
"Sea is mar, Prince… it is much more beautiful than in English…" Hippolyta told him.
"True."
"I really want to learn Spanish, I also like this language a lot."
"And me, it sounds very clean, I think it will be easier to pronounce than Portuguese," Sev opined.
"Yes, me too."
Oh, no eres tú mi cantar
No puedo cantar ni quiero
A ese Jesús del madero
Si no al que anduvo en la mar
Oh, no eres tú mi cantar…
"Wow… it's the bomb," said Sev. "Besides, it's not so religious, it rejects the macabre aspect of Christianity, the cross and all that, it focuses on the life of Jesus, on the miracles he performed."
"True, I've thought about it many times, Jesus Christ must have been a wizard," said Peter.
Everyone laughed.
"I'm going with track eight, a reflection of the time that Machado lived in Spain. 'Españolito', 'Little Spanish'."
"We have it."
"Here it goes."
Y hay un español que quiere
Vivir y a vivir empieza
Y hay un español que quiere
Vivir y a vivir empieza
Entre una España que muere
Y otra España que bosteza
Españolito que vienes
Al mundo te guarde Dios
Españolito que vienes
Al mundo te guarde Dios
Una de las dos Españas
Ha de helarte el corazón
"Did you get the lyrics, Severus?" Peter asked him. "For the two sides that have fought since the establishment of the Spanish Republic, but it is still absolutely relevant."
"Oh…"
"Of course, the elite that has held power during the dictatorship does not want to lose it, the Spanish are in for a turbulent time."
"Of course…"
"I'm going with track ten, 'I've walked many roads', 'He andado muchos caminos'," the man announced.
"We have it."
He andado muchos caminos
He abierto muchas veredas
He navegado en cien mares
Y atracado en cien riberas
En todas partes he visto
Caravanas de tristeza
Soberbios y melancólicos
Borrachos de sombra negra
Y pedantones al paño
Que miran, callan y piensan
Que saben por qué no beben
El vino de las tabernas
Mala gente que camina
Y va apestando la tierra
Y en todas partes he visto
Gentes que cantan o juegan
Cuando pueden y laboran
Sus cuatro palmos de tierra
Nunca si llegan a un sitio
Preguntan a dónde llegan
Cuando caminan cabalgan
A lomos de mula vieja
Y no conocen la prisa
Ni aun en los días de fiesta
Donde hay vino, beben vino
Donde no hay vino agua fresca
Son buenas gentes que viven
Laboran, pasan y sueñan
Y en un día como tantos
Descansan bajo la tierra
"Very good, very good, this guy is a genius," said Sev. "It's a shame we won't listen to the whole album, there's not one I didn't like."
"It's worth listening to Miguel Hernández's, otherwise it's going to be very late, your brother has to come too," said Peter. "That way you have something to do for the next few days."
"Okay."
"In fact, let's leave this one now, give me the lyrics and the cover." Peter put the disc away and prepared to put on the next one.