I love cassettes, or cassettes as you want to call him. The sound of children's maraca when they stir. Scandal by putting them in the cassette. The indiscreet click of some recorders and above all ... the imperfect sound that comes off the friction of the magnetic tape with the head. Rummaging through dad's belongings, I discovered that I kept something like 80% of my musical work in a dozen cassettes. He never told me. I considered it lost. However, I don't know how he managed to get her out of Cuba. At that time I had lived in Europe for a long time. He never talked about it. He was a little friend of secrets. There are times when absences have their own language. And from him I did not inherit wealth or flows. Dad died poor. Or not? His posthumous gift was to return the lost memory in the maze of emigration to the rightful owner. And that is priceless. Strange twist. Unexpected message that brings me closer to the parable of the fisherman. Better a fishing rod than gifted fish. A semi-unknown José Antonio returns to me. With a voice that I no longer have. Guitar harmonies that I will see how I decipher. And so I inaugurate the family archeology campaign by opening envelopes and drawers that in addition to making me cough and sneeze offer interesting findings. I love cassettes. The smell of vinyl records. The old books And the algae that die on the beach. But today I am for cassettes. While the man I was sings to the man that I am from an old player that is not sold or found in our digital stores. Thanks dude!! © José Antonio Quesa.
Apenas ve la luz del día. Pero no siente que se esté perdiendo nada. Dice que