I’m crazy about Joni Txintxes, I’m crazy for Tatano and I’m crazy about Segarra. But who is more crazy I am is by the Txintxes. Not in vain have I since the first. I’m also crazy by Alba Barral, but it is not music, as the previous, but a dancer. It is one of the best dancers that I have had the jam to dance to. Lying face-up on her, I nailed her beaky pubic bone in the ass and made me spin like a fucking top.
The Txintxes is always in short-shorts, as snow. When asked why he’s never wearing long pants, tells you that because it bothers you and because the cold doesn’t feel so much. The Tatano, at his side, apostille, which is a gene that have the of Bilbao.
The Tatano sings holding on to a litrona of Xibeca, with the head tilted and swaying, far away from the microphone. When he sings you see the palettes separadísimas, aniñan much. The worse he sings, the better he sings the bastard.
they Are very skinny the two. The Segarra not so much because it is the battery. Alba Barral is not skinny: what that is is thin and fuertísima. The three musicians could kill one after the other and they would be grateful to die at their hands. To me it would be worth the disappearance of the Sants Estació, the best band of ranchera-punk of Barcelona, between 2012 and 2016, but I’d be happy to have seen it in action to Alba Barral.
Sants Estació, millor de Sants.
It a sideboard, on tot ho buy jo./ Renfe, t’estimo; TMB, t admire you./ Can Vies and Ateneu, quin fastig em feu./ Us to the Renfe amb billet or sense. (…)/ Sants is the syrup, Sants mola a ou,/ Sants is the carrer commercial month llarg del mon!
That means -translation melodic-: Sants Estació, the best of Sants./ It’s a showcase for you to buy./ Renfe, I love you; TMB you adore./ Can Vies and Ateneo, what disgust you give me./ We in the Renfe, with or without a ticket.(…)/ Sants mola an egg, Sants is the cane,/ Sants is the street with more stores to Spain. In Band Camp you have this and more songs by the group. And BMR means Transportes Metropolitanos de Barcelona, the Ateneo is the Ateneo Libertario de Sants (to this day, plating) and Can Vies, the squat property of TMB, located in the Sants neighbourhood where he was born and died -in the hands of Alba Barral – the group.
With reverence to those who gather the courage to approach their intellectual referents, at the end of a concert that I didn’t even get to dance with a frenzy that I asked the body not to scare the band with my makes-go-go; at the end of a concert he gave at ground, I say, I told them that they were chunk of musicians and they were loaded with intelligence, and they, with the indifference characteristic of the punks, we laughed and I responded that they played like shit but that gave them equal. It was then when Alba Barral, list as the hunger that we passed by, pounced on us to start a pogo, and ending with a meal of cocks. Had begun to touch the Foam, which they take more seriously the music, and that they therefore are not as good, but they have a version of punk-Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps indisputably brilliant.
After a bulldozer municipal take literally down a third of Can Vies, of which the Ministry of the Interior mandara 100 dairy of Madrid, of which the excavator to come out on fire and that the squatters and their solidarity started, literally, the reconstruction of the building, Sants Estació, which had been left without a home but also without local essay, wrote that 315 pounds of concrete would not make any revolution: 315 kilos of formigó/ no faran cap action./ 80 demanant l absolució/ i natros sense habitació./ Passem d a revolta al carrer/ menjar-nos what a great merder./ I don’t know if it will be the repressió/ or something hem fet bad in tot aixó.
And I more mad that I turned them for daring to recognize that they were fucked up not because there was 80 asking for absolution, but because they do not have room. Screwed for having spent the revolt in the street to eat shit in a lunch box, not knowing if it was a thing of the repression so brutal or whether it was something they had done wrong.
it Was the spring of 2014 and is now played in the street, and Alba and I, thanks to his wisdom in dance and the fear and rush that we had last in the riots, we launched the pogo up without an audience, even without a mass of people with which to bounce. Pogueábamos the one on the other with the idea of ir heating to the surrounding and join, but we reached a speed, a ferocity and a level of vapuleamiento that no punki dared. She came out of his trials with the company Thomas Noone or with the choreographer Lautaro Reyes and there was going to be poguear to the vicinity of the ruins of Can Vies that began to rise. Was a duo, in the end, what we came to Barral, and to me, a duo worthy of the Bolshoi. To me, before, Dawn I fell out of a bitch mother and admired her work, but in those afternoons I started to go crazy for her and agilipollarme as I spent with the Sants Estació. I’m looking forward to poguearla, or to make contact with her, or that we masajeemos contractures, but I’m ashamed that I notice the wanting. Alba Barral, if you read this, remember the beautiful sunsets that we share vis-à-vis the police and how happily we envilecíamos together.
Cristina Morales has won the Herralde Award with easy-to-Read.
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