It is not easy to remain quiet and immobile in the chair that moves me from the known world of the XXI century to La Mancha in 1500. It is a journey through the alchemy of makeup driven by Azahara, the person in charge of conducting this strange carriage.
When I finished reading Don Quixote, still very young, and after my father had talked to me, for many years, about his transcendent encounter with this novel, not only I had no plans to become a singer, but I never would have imagined that one day I would have the rare gift of embody this myth of Spanish literature, which since 400 years ago comes speaking for all, which is something the classics insist brightly on doing, ignoring the degraded that time draws on almost everything.
There is no sound that follows us coming from the invisible stomach of an elevator because it has not been invented yet; the railways of all trains in the world are still sleeping on the bowels of where, someday, they will be called to the forge and the air smells of cattle, onions and manure that shares the same space where men are twinned with the beasts
The first snowfall that laid on Vienna on 2003 was a complete surprise, at two in the morning on a day that had not been particularly cold. I was walking at that hour, like other nights, wandering around the halls of my house, looking for my slippers, listening to the radio that reached me through the Telekabel service and wasting my time in doing nothing.
The way a solo artist is finally convinced, in case he had any doubts, that it he is, precisely that, a guy who remains alone just doing what he is doing: approaching Beethoven´s Ninth Symphony. Maybe he has a choir of about 80 people that are around 15 meters away drawing up a straight line from a neck that is better not to scratch.
Hold on to a lamppost with both hands and take an impossible horizontal mime artist position while a damned wind tries to take you to a gigantic bonfire that swallows all of the oxygen hundreds of meters around. The same oxygen that thousands of people will lack of,who will die suffocated while sheltering in the basements of the city
Whoever walks into a bar after leaving a funeral or dismissing a friend forever is sure boundto feel submerged by the rare sensation that all sounds that run daily life, the voices of a TV or a lighthearted talk come from a world where everything is alien. The recent pain always makes unrealistic and inappropriate any sign that we have reached an ordinary Monday.
There is a man locked in a dungeon who has been tortured for endless days with the excuse that his thoughts are not the same as those who manage the pain. It seems like a case taken out of a newspaper or a report of International Amnesty, yet the story told by Dallapiccola in this opera takes place in Zaragoza at the time of the Inquisition.