Aren't you afraid of being called a plagiarist?
The artist copies; the genius steals.
Well, I stole it for the head of La Contra and I'll touch it up.
That is the creative act; I would say that any creator, consciously or not, recreates. But I only see as guilty those who by copying do not improve it. In some way, to avoid plagiarism you have to commit murder: be better than the person who inspired you and thus kill him.
Only God creates ex novo; The rest of us, at most, recreate?
Lalalalala...
Why does Coca-Cola sing to me now?
Because I wanted to dedicate a song to those who were part of my past and only after publishing the album did I realize that it started from the idea of the theme of that advertisement.
Damn earworms!
I'm not talking so much about that catchy melody that you only get rid of by chewing gum. I'm talking about composing or writing something without being aware that you are copying, getting inspired if you prefer... Or copying, yes.
Confess now, Rifé... Your inspirations.
I grew up listening to Serrat and Llach, so now I discover them in the tics of my first songs.
And they copied others before, don't you think?
I also admit to having imitated Bowie when singing without realizing it and that only the great Carles Flavià...
We miss Father Flavià!
...He told me that when he sang he sounded like Bowie, but he didn't realize, on the other hand, that I was copying his way of laughing with incredulous sarcasm and yet tender and warm.
Haven't they copied you too?
My song Fil de llum is the tune from the series Polseres vermelles by Albert Espinosa and it went viral in Europe and a singer from Rome translated it into Italian.
Without paying rights?
Not a cent. But YouTube's algorithm discovered the plagiarism and deleted his version. I took steps to ensure that they did not delete it.
Why give him your talent?
Because I received a letter from a man who said that listening to it had dissuaded him from committing suicide when he was driving determined to jump off a cliff. And, furthermore... if the algorithm knew what I owed to the talent of others! Why make the Italian pay?
Without copyright would there be authors?
On some other occasion, also without knowing it, I have deceived the respectable.
Confess guilt and perhaps there will be forgiveness.
I had some success on a tour in which I recreated on stages here and in Latin America the rogue atmosphere of the Chinatown of Barcelona in the 1930s. I dedicated a song to a photograph by Català-Roca...
He knew how to capture the essence of his time!
That's why we chose that photo of him from Barcelona, until one day I realized that the photo was actually from Madrid.
Nobody is perfect.
I went to an exhibition on Madrid's Gran Vía and there was the photo of the street. And even in some performance, mea culpa again, I admit that the inspiration... was foreign.
You won't get out of here: I promise you.
I saw the photo of Chema Madoz, masterfully describing how three ice cubes, just like the Olympic gold, silver and bronze podiums, dissolve until they end up in nothing.
Thus passes the Olympic glory.
Olimpicae, politicae and all the aes you can imagine. All glories last a breath... Much shorter than the ego they lengthen.
Perhaps in the West we worship the personality of the artist; and he, to his ego.
For this reason, it was groundbreaking for me to demystify him: to laugh at myself and at that supposedly enlightened genius in his ivory tower inspired only by his own genius when he is a guy who copies, copies, is copied...
Is that why he fills my piano with noodles now? Won't some bacteria catch me?
I deserve it, because the piano is part of that idealization and even sacralization when it is in the interest of some power or nation to seize that supposed genius of a guy who began to create by recreating and copying. That's why the piano is like a tablecloth.
What did you do with Madoz's cubes?
To reflect on the futility of the fame that I had enjoyed for a short time – it always seems short – I bought a one-cubic meter block of ice and stood on it at the Center d'Arts Santa Mònica until it melted like my fame.
How long did the ice last?
Thirty-three hours that seemed, paradoxically, eternal to me, much more than the little fame I had one day.
Did he neither eat nor eat in 33 hours?
Good friends helped me with their containers. And Gil de Biedma helped me.
As?
When I played Yesterday's Tomorrow, Today I was consoled to see fame summarized in its first verse: “It's the rain on the sea.”
