Aren't you afraid of being called a plagiarist?
The artist copies; the genie steals.
Well, I will steal it for the title of La Contra and touch it up.
This is the creative act; I would say that any creator, consciously or not, recreates. But I only see as guilty who by copying does not improve it. In a way, to avoid plagiarism you have to commit murder: be better than the one who inspired you and thus kill him.
Only God creates ex novo; the others, at all stretch, do we recreate?
Lalalalala...
Why is Coca-C singing to me now?
Because I wanted to dedicate a song to those who were part of my past and it was only after publishing the album that I realized that it started from the idea of the tune of this ad.
Maleïts earworm s!
I'm not talking so much about that catchy tune that you only get rid of by chewing gum. I'm talking about composing or writing something without being aware that you're copying, getting inspired if you prefer... Or copying, yes.
Confess it now, Rifé... His inspirations.
I grew up listening to Serrat and Llach, so now I discover them in the tics of my first songs.
And they used to copy others, right?
I also admit to having imitated Bowie when I sing without realizing it and that only the great Carles Flavià...
We miss Monsignor Flavià!
...He told me that when I sang I sounded like Bowie, but he didn't notice, on the other hand, that I copied that way of his laughing with disbelieving mockery and yet tender and warm.
And you haven't been copied too?
My song Fil de llum is the theme of the Polseres vermelles series by Albert Espinosa and it went viral in Europe and a singer from Rome copied it by translating it into Italian.
Without paying duties?
Not a cent But YouTube's algorithm discovered the plagiarism and deleted his version. I made arrangements so that it would not be deleted.
Why give away your talent?
Because I received a letter from a gentleman who said that listening to it had dissuaded him from committing suicide when he was driving determined to throw himself off a cliff. And, besides... if the algorithm knew what I owe 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 public.
Confess guilt and maybe 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 Barcelona's Chinatown in the 1930s. I dedicated a song to a photograph of 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 alien.
He won't leave here: I promise.
I saw the photo of Chema Madoz, masterfully describing how three icicles, like the Olympic gold, silver and bronze podiums, melt away into nothing.
Thus passes the Olympic glory.
Olimpicae, politicae and all the aes imaginable. All glories last a breath... Much shorter than the ego they stretch.
Perhaps in the West we still worship the personality of the artist; and he, to his ego.
That's why I found it heartbreaking to demystify him: to laugh at myself and this so-called enlightened genius in his ivory tower inspired only by his own genius when he's a guy who copies, copies, gets copied ...
Is that why my piano is full of noodles now? Won't I get some bacteria?
I cringe at it, because the piano is part of this idealization and even sacralization when it is in the interest of some power or nation to seize the alleged genius of a type that it began to create by recreating and collecting. That's why the piano is like a tablecloth.
What did he do with Madoz's icicles?
To reflect on the futility of the fame that I had enjoyed for a short time - it always seems short - I bought a block of one cubic meter of ice and climbed on it at the Santa Monica Arts Center until it melt like my fame.
How long did the ice last?
Thirty-three hours that became, paradoxically, eternal for me, much more than the small fame I had one day.
Didn't it slip in 33 hours?
Good friends helped me with their containers. And Gil de Biedma helped me.
With?
Musician El mañana de ayer, hoy consoled me to see the fame summed up in its first verse: "It's rain over the sea".
