When we ended up in that vinyls store in the middle of a fire the swiss guy whispered “I wanna get your number, it might be interesting having more weed”. I wish I could have listened to every single disc of them with you, pretending that what they had to say was not about us. Songs from other generations were entrapped in that place. Songs that still breath in the chest, as you and your twin sister still played by the reader, and you as a rarity on my playlist.
You and your sister are the souls of your motherland, an exotic curiosity for my pen, object of my feelings right now.
I won’t never believe that out of that store there was nothing at all. And in fact there was the airport, the catalan police, the multi language dealers, the 70s fake news experiment of the artist collective you were excited by. I wish I could have lied with you and made some mess in the store, accepted your invite to sneak around in the park deprived of our tickets but with a whole uncommercial superorange supermediterranean extralarge meditative sunset. I wish I could have. But I had a flight and still some discipline not to disobey. There was only one way. We could have got arrested so that the law would have taken the responsibility for my folly. I couldn’t risk to lose your kindness thought by putting on your shoulder the weight of my short-sighted dreams. I couldn’t avoid to challenge the clouds and to become a nameless bright wake in the sky that night.
Someone was gonna use my track to express a desire of his own, someone from Spain, France or perhaps Germany, who knows. Someone who is gonna wish that is not over yet between him and the vinyl scarf-less jewish green-eyed stranger whom he was called by in a catalan square in an imperialist idiom.
Matteo Iammarrone, Barcelona 3/09/2018.