I’ve mentioned previously my devotion and absolute awe around the figure and memory of the late Luis Alberto Spinetta; this time I’ll expand, focusing in particular on a specific version of one of his earliest songs ever.
He composed this gem at the age of 15 (around 1965), and was almost expelled from his school because he shared it with his friends. (Yes, Argentine culture has always been extremely conservative, and Rock and Roll was literally banned during those years at some point. No comments.)
This version of “Barro Tal Vez” (literally translated as “Mud, Perhaps”) is outstanding.
But don’t hit play right away; at least, not yet. Follow these instructions instead. Make sure to lower the blinds, or turn down the lights. Make yourself a cup of tea, your preferred brew, preferably of the calming kind. Sit down in your preferred spot at home with your legs crossed and your body relaxed. Close your eyes. Think of the art that makes you the most vulnerable; bring to you the thoughts that take you the furthest away from your body; recall those memories that strike like a proverbial lightning of feathers on your backbone and bring all the shivers to your spine.
And then, only then, while you hear yourself breathing calmly, while your mental notebook is filled with coffee stains and green ink, and a tear of gratitude is about to roll over your cheek, then, and only then, open your left eye slightly and hit the play button on your laptop.
The lyrics go like this, and seriously, only a lucid one like Spinetta could write this at the age of 15. It gives a separate meaning to the word “awaken”.
If I don’t sing what I feel
I’ll die inside
I’ll shout to the winds until I burst
Even if there’s only time left in my place
If I want to, I’ll touch my soul
Because my flesh is nothing now
I’ll merge my remains with the awakening
Even if my mouth rots from silence
I’m already wanting it
I’m already becoming a song
Mud, perhaps
And this is my bark
Where the axe will strike
Where the river will dry up to be silent
The moments are already rushing me
My temple is already a lament
My brain already spits out the end of the story
Of the beginning that, perhaps, will start again
If I want to, I touch my soul
For my flesh is nothing now
I’ll merge my remains with the awakening
Even if my mouth rots from silence
I am already wanting it
I am already becoming a song
Mud, perhaps
For this is my bark
Where the axe will strike
Where the river will dry up to be silent
When the song ends, just stay like that, with your eyes closed, your legs crossed, breathing deeply, smiling.