I don’t like them rockers obituariesbecause nothing challenges death as much as rockthis gloss is therefore rather the celebration of the resurrection of Robe, which has become eternal. Talk later … of an artist of the precipice, and this is perhaps why he never worked in one direction, nor in several. He walked from the elements, with the full intentions of a nomadic life and an insane dictionary in his pockets, until he created his own language of wild tenderness and luminous blasphemy. Their rock is a feverish heartbeata breath that brings beauty and injury, because without pain we know nothing, and Robe has always felt it. He sang as if each verse found himself, for the first time, in the last deserts of the soul. Nothing in him obeyed the school or the trend. Everything was born from this almost impossible link of misery and lucidity that only those who loved silence and survived the hubbub practice. Robe is a humanist, it must be said as soon as possible, but a humanist reads electricity. It’s a moment of Nerudawho put on the old night jacket. It’s a moment of Machadoplus the joint, which suddenly curses, because he knows that for some, life has never been punctual. This won’t be the case either. And it’s also that untimely partner who talks to you between two drinks about the things that excite, that rot, that save us.
In his songs shameless eschatology, sex on the street corner and the neighborhood without makeup coexist. Robe is a Cicero type who drinks and smokes more than necessary. There is no contradiction in Robe, because everything about him is true. He never lost his faith in art, an indomitable and surly faith that sustained him where few others do. This credo led him to compose almost liturgical pieces, based on the emotional nudity of “Pédra” to the monumental architecture of “La Loi Innée”, his most ambitious work, this spiral journey where ferocity becomes symphonic without ever ceasing to be street. A masterpiece.
He never perfected his indiscipline to please. And yet, or precisely because of this, he conquered multitudes
He first put his soul into Extremoduro, this hymn-singing machine for those who walked against the wind. He then embarked on a solo career which reached one of its highest peaks with “Se nos take el aire”. He has always followed a path as improbable as his own. From the marginality of the club to becoming a transversal reference, followed by those who were looking for something more than rock, something like a way of being or not being in the world. He made no concessions, he never changed clothes without a suit or his disheveled hairstyle, he never displayed his indiscipline to please. And yet, or precisely because of that, he won over the crowds, as if his voice of damaged metal harbored a truth that no one knew how to explain, but that everyone recognized. The echo of albums like ‘Agila’ either “Me, absolute minority” He continued to grow, even when he seemed to be walking in directions contrary to the world.
He was the great lyricist of the line, a touch of the type of talent that would die on us every year, in every song, until it suddenly happened. A few days ago, when the news of his departure broke through in the afternoon, the crowd of his faithful knew that a fragment of his own musical biography, perhaps the most tender and also the fiercest, was cracking. Because Dress wrote how he lived. Without asking permission, without looking away, without avoiding beauty, even if it was covered in mud. Or precisely because of that. From the outskirts of everything, he forever expanded the horizon of Spanish rock. He revealed himself to be a poet without a pulpit, a suburban thinker, a creator who understood that art is never governed. You breathe, you curse, you love.
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