Silvio Rodríguez to Página 12: "All songs, regardless of what they speak about, are political"

October 29, 2020

Last June Silvio Rodríguez presented Para la espera, a work composed of thirteen songs, ten previously unreleased and three previously released.

"Para la espera includes some of the songs I've composed in recent years. In all cases they are first versions, made shortly after composing them," clarifies Silvio. "The instruments and voices heard here are myself, taking notes to develop later. Only three of these pieces were previously released: 'Jugábamos a Dios' (2010) for the credits of the film 'Afinidades' --directed by Jorge Perugorría and Vladimir Cruz--, 'Viene la cosa' (2016), performed in multiple concerts in Havana neighborhoods and 'Noche sin fin y mar' (2017), dedicated to my dear friend Eduardo Aute. The remaining 10 pieces are unreleased," he details.

The total is completed with "La adivinanza", "Aunque no quiero, veo que me alejo", "Conteo atrás", "Si Lucifer Volviera al Paraíso", "Una sombra", "Los Aliviadores", "Modo frigio", "Danzón para la Espera", "Después de vivir", and the instrumental "Página Final". The album, which arrives five years after Amoríos (2015), has everything: melancholy, reflection, just causes, waiting, family and friends.

Thirteen songs in his return to a solo format, where he accompanies himself with guitar, but also plays bass, percussion and does backing vocals. Intimacy and communion to dedicate his new work to seven friends who died between March and April of this year: Tupac Pinilla, Juan Padrón, Luis Eduardo Aute, César López, Luis Sepúlveda, Marcos Mundstock and Óscar Chávez.

He presents himself as "a troubadour born in San Antonio de los Baños, Cuba, in 1946, son of Argelia and Dagoberto".

--You dedicated Para la espera to seven friends who died this year. The name of the album appears in "Danzón para la espera", a song that talks about waiting, hope, dazonés that fade away. Of the deepest longings, is there one you particularly hope for?

--Some of the deepest longings usually live in constant uncertainty: yes but no, but yes, but maybe... The good fortune is that one is so insolent (or needy) that one bets. About the dedication, some were closer than others, but with all of them I had some deep bond because of their work. In Para la espera there are songs that visit or peek at mysteries. One is "Noche sin fin y mar", which I dedicated to Eduardo Aute, a friend of many years and many things. His family is my Spanish family. There's also "Después de vivir", which is like a pause, a kind of breath before letting loose, although all major changes usually have their preambles, their limbos.

--You are a musician of contact, of close looks and applause. In this context, how did you experience launching and presenting your new album on digital platforms?

--It must be said that it has been the most gentle album I've made. I didn't have to go bothering anyone. Nobody had to change plans and mobilize themselves. A softness that the ether gifts us (although the muscles resent it).

--As a boy you dreamed of being an astronaut and, in fact, many of your songs reference astronomy, space. What place does play have in your music?

--Stars are very attractive to children, we all wonder what's out there; I suppose that was it. I also said I wanted to be an astronomer. The truth is that I read science fiction comics: Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon, Space Cadets and others. Years later I was a comic book artist. Now I sing them. Imagine that my town is called San Antonio del Humor. It earned that by producing two of the most important cartoonists in Cuban history: Eduardo Abela and René de la Nuez; and a third one who, although born in Asturias, lived with us since his adolescence: José Luis Posada. That's why in my town there's a Humor Biennial and a Humor Museum. This doesn't mean that everyone born in Ariguanabo is funny. I, for example, have had very bad luck telling jokes. People almost never notice my pranks and take me seriously. Although luckily when I've spoken seriously they've taken me as a joke.

--The documentary Silvio Rodríguez. Mi primera gran tarea, made by The Literacy Project and produced by filmmaker Catherine Murphy, which premiered last September, recounts your strong social commitment from a very early age. Do you identify with the image that Murphy's work reproduces?

--Naming and classifying helps knowledge, so it's good to have organized what we know; but, when it comes to people, it seems to me that nobody is really the label they're given. We are nothing but a life that casually appeared in a geography; our grandparents' grandchildren, our parents' children; the girl or boy who lived on such a street and building, in an apartment number; the classmate of many. Those of us who for some reason become visible also didn't know what awaited us, much less that there would be new classifications and performance exams. One never sheds one's ancestors, one's history, one's family, the corners of one's life; we all walk around with that everywhere.

--Precisely, about the corners of your life, what were times like in San Antonio de los Baños?

--In San Antonio I lived in several places: at my grandparents' house, which is where I was born; then in a tenement (you call them conventillos); then in a little wooden house that had a common patio with another family; later at a cousin's house and finally in another little house where my mother styled ladies' hair and I would go up at night in local buses to sing, with several buddies. But what I most remember about my town is the river and the forest, where I would escape whenever I could (and when I couldn't too). Most of my best childhood memories have to do with my town. From Havana I happily remember Friday nights when my uncle Angelito would take me to the movies, and at the end we'd go to the Chinese place to eat fried rice.

--At only 14 years old in 1961 you decided to join the National Literacy Campaign. How do you remember that experience and how much did it contribute to the Silvio Rodríguez that would come?

--It wasn't anything extraordinary. There were literacy teachers younger than me. The Revolution had just triumphed and the vast majority of young people wanted to contribute something, to be useful to our country. Although the transformation of education was already thought out before the triumph, perhaps Fidel perceived the youthful predisposition and that's why he asked us to donate a year of our training to teach those who didn't know how. This, personally, was a step of commitment, because of the dedication it meant, although I already belonged to student militias and did guard duty at my school. That whole early '60s period meant my incorporation into civic life.

--What connection do you find between that experience and your "Gira por los Barrios"?

--It's a consequence, but it has reasons. First, because I came from two families of workers, of kind people; even some of my mother's brothers were socialist activists. Second, because after January 1st, 1959 a philosophy of generosity began to generalize. The first time I saw the National Ballet of Cuba was not in a theater but at the foot of the university hill, on a crowded Havana street. Back then ballet was thought to be an elitist art, of the bourgeoisie. But Alicia and Fernando Alonso, founders of that world-renowned company, didn't look for dancers in the elites but rather responded to the calling of young people from the people. At the triumph of the Revolution there were people in Cuba who had never been to a movie, who didn't even know what one was. Alfredo Guevara, founder of the Cuban Institute of Cinematographic Art and Industry (ICAIC), bought projector trucks and had them climb the mountains, along intricate roads, bringing cinematographic art to people who couldn't even dream of it. There's a documentary by Octavio Cortázar, called "Por primera vez", about a screening in a remote place in the Sierra Maestra, a film of wonderful tenderness. That is, my adolescence took place in a reality where art and artists were in a social and solidarity function. My own origins and that reality formed me.

--If we were to recount transcendent situations, like the literacy crusade, the fishing vessel Playa Girón in 1969, Fidel Castro's surprise visit, the influence of Ernesto "Che" Guevara, what of all that immensity marked you particularly?

--I must clarify two things. That visit from Fidel, the day I turned 50, wasn't exactly at my house but at another nearby where I was visiting. Felipe Pérez Roque (former Cuban chancellor) called my house to tell me that Fidel had a gift for me; they told him where I was and then Fidel went to give me a photo book in which we both appear. The other thing I must clarify is that the Che didn't influence my art but my person, the person who was beginning to make art. Although the truth is that at first I wasn't very convinced of guerrilla internationalism. I thought there was a lot to fix in Cuba and that it was somewhat far-fetched to throw yourself into the world, with so much to do. After the Che died was when the force of his example hit me fully and the desire awoke in me to try to imitate him. It seems absurd, because his death implied a certain failure of his ideas; but that's how it worked, at least in me. That's why in 1976 I was twice in the war in Angola.

--On more than one occasion you've stated that you were never attracted to politics, but your lyrics and your journeys are political.

--In a sense all songs, whatever they talk about, are political. Everything that identifies us with something, in its way, is doing political work; every proposition, even if skewed, is like a kind of invitation; even what comes through the sentimental route. If that's what you're referring to, we agree. Reality is political. One walks from home to work and everything one sees and hears can lead one to vote for something, or not. Of course, making songs has considerable political implication, especially if one dares to expose them. But songs are also made of desires, illusions, subjectivities, even fiction (if that exists). It comforts me to think that I'm in a range of delirium that exempts me from indoctrination (something I've never tolerated). Another relief is never having used hatred as raw material.

--Why do you think people who struggle or manifest are so often stigmatized as violent?

--Because not everyone is willing to change or be changed, much less if it doesn't suit them. That reminds me of an old song that said: "Whenever one man hits another man it's not the body he wants to hurt: inside the fist goes the hatred of an idea that attacks him, that makes him change".

--The covid-19 situation prevented you from presenting your album live and forced you to momentarily interrupt your neighborhood presentations. Recently you said that "the pandemic showed what we are". In what sense?

--That's what seemed to me that day. Although the pandemic has also shown what we are not. I remember mentioning that countries with strong States were doing better. It makes sense; especially if those States have good health systems. In Cuba we have a saying about certain kinds of people: "They only remember Santa Bárbara when it thunders". And it's that right now it's thundering, and hard, and it makes sense that the one who foresees does better. I say this clarifying that it's not that I defend strong States at all costs; unless they're an expression of healthy, active, decisive citizenship. All societies have pending subjects.

--Will the world learn from all this?

--The proportions of what's happening to us point to a great lesson. Although there have been others in history that have been forgotten. They say we're like that. Will we learn to be better? Hopefully.

--Is there something you think about often, some recurring image, or something you dream repeatedly?

--I prefer not to tell that to an Argentine. Especially not to a journalist. With the number of psychologists in that country, I'd be crazy.

--Any song, your own or someone else's, that paints you completely?

--There are some very personal ones, like "Me veo claramente". The one that talks about a specimen from back there, from the Pleistocene. When you're young you can succumb to the temptation of painting yourself, but with age that diminishes, the charm fades.