A song

The first time I saw Indio Solari was in the late eighties and I thought his name was Patricio Rey, because that was the name of his band, Patricio Rey y los Redonditos de Ricota.

It was in Buenos Aires, in one of those places full of smoke where we injected ourselves in massive doses at night because we believed that it was the only thing that could dissolve sadness.

A beautiful man took me.

I didn't know the band, but the precious man spoke to me about Patricio Rey as if he were a gloomy messiah.

So I went.

I don't remember where he was.

I know that at one point, jets of light sprang from the stage, piercing the dirty blackness of that gloomy place.

What I saw was not a man: it was danger.

Bald, his hand raised into a fist, he began to sing.

And I converted, in that instant, to the mythology of his voice, to that threat he had in his throat.

The band grew.

A lot.

I never went to see them at big recitals because they terrified me.

300,000 people gathered, there were injuries, deaths.

But I kept listening to them, addicted to that voice of the devil sent from paradise.

The band broke up, Indio Solari formed another, Los fundamentalistas del aire acondicionado, with which he made fabulous records.

And six years ago, he fell ill with Parkinson's.

Last week he announced his retirement.

Lately, I go running with a song of his that destroys me.

It's from 2021. It's called

Six years ago, he fell ill with Parkinson's.

Last week he announced his retirement.

Lately, I go running with a song of his that destroys me.

It's from 2021. It's called

Six years ago, he fell ill with Parkinson's.

Last week he announced his retirement.

Lately, I go running with a song of his that destroys me.

It's from 2021. It's called

.

He says: "I can no longer fulfill / feats that I promised / Just keep singing (...) I just need to know / the date and the place / and there I will go, singing."

That voice, that scream that doesn't complain, that lunar roar out in the open.

I listen to it on days when I can't accomplish the feats I promised either.

But he fulfilled his.

His songs trained us in the art of breathing below the surface, of resisting the onslaught of fear.

I tell you with the only thing I have: this song of mine that, in case it's not clear, is a song of love and respect.

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