the summer when we were young we went Benicassim for the festival. We did the last swim in San Sebastian an hour when the city awoke, we went from house to Pamplona to prepare the bags and baguettes with the tortilla, crossed the steppe Aragonese listening to the blue Golf for the Hefner We love the city , through Spain and Spain through us, we followed the flow of other machines that were running away to the south in July, and at dinner time we arrived at the Castle, where waiting for us a house, a bed for some, for others a sofa, or rug. In the morning we had breakfast with Milk and cookies, we went to the beach in Benicassim, slept, swam, read, play with Mary and Candle, the three expected to cross the promenade Benicassim, with its endless street lights, and go up to the apartment of uncles, on the Tower. Arantxa cooked, we sat at the table, I asked Ignacio Italy, the cousins \u200b\u200bwere changing the costume, Edward told the girls that made the actor, the girls read the tabloid, then ate to bursting. The nice thing was that no matter who it was the family, feel part of care, even though we had never seen before, although it was only for a few days, even if we never meet again. After lunch we sat on the veranda, watching television, flicking through the newspapers, talked Osasuna, Arantxa laughed and said to Edward that was like the casting, the boyfriend of Paulina Rubio, the cousins \u200b\u200bwere resting. Then we were six, and then we change ourselves, we'd indie jeans and T-shirts, greeted everyone and with the Golf went to inaugurate the festival.
When we were young we bought the orange shirt by Belle & Sebastian from the unofficial car of some boys in the parking lot of the festival of Benicassim. We came to the concerts, rested, fed, tanned, emaciated and the British laughed palliducci, their life in camp, their flip-flops and their stupid straw hats. We drank beer in large plastic cups, sitting in front of Maximo Park , we hurry to hear the last notes of Sr. Chinarro , waiting for the sunset and Yo La Tengo (I think their Tom Courtenay and I shudder) on the lawn in front of the stage Central, talking about projects, memories of nothing. We ate what happened, meet friends, felt cold, listening to the last group and then, when the environment grew hostile, they left the compound, denying opportunities to gain beer and pills scattered on the path of punk that led to the parking lot. At home, we rotate the bed, the couch and the carpet, and Nikolas gave us a lesson on how to brush their teeth.
Maria Candela, her cousins, after digging holes on the shore all morning, after eating the ensaladilla rusa, after made a siesta before we leave-so large, cool and with long hair-we asked a brooch as a gift. One each. The next day they brought him, colored, and wrong, because they were different, and two children of four years you have to buy the same things, and then one of us was hurt, and the next day remedy. Edward I stayed at home cooked pasta carbonara for the cousins \u200b\u200bwho had hosted us, he was very good (like chicken breaded and fried potatoes), but i Navarro were not used to eating pasta, let alone the carbonara, and then barely concealing their bloated stomach, while we listened to music, went out on the terrace overlooking the sea, looking ahead, we let the wind mess my hair on the forehead, we thought the next day, August, September Exam , the girls who were waiting for us. returns to the Festival to hear the Lemonheads and the Cure, a little 'I was bored because I was not there for that, the clouds covered the mountains of Valencia, we shook in hooded sweatshirts , Nikolas Edward was drunk, passed from one stage to another, there was no real reason behind our actions, but only the awareness of not having a goal, especially because it had what we saw and heard during the trip. It was important to remember to leave your shoes on the terrace before going to sleep.
When we were young we had the look of an artist, watched people, mountains, concerts, objects, palm trees, then close your eyes, opened them, and all those things the more we saw, it looked different from how we remembered the the saw with different eyes, because we were shooting around the reality, or perhaps the reality turned around to us, and we were its directors, its writers, its photographers. We had no nostalgia for the past because the future changed every five minutes, as the groups on stage, the outputs of the carretera, with those curious names of villages in the sea, who knew of paella on the beach, girlfriends English kas limon, , maybe instead they were squalid places, sorrowful and full of old, but we are comforted by a mild desire to avoid having to find ever. We believed in the possibility of an encounter, love at first sight, travel, pleasure to do something first, to be able to tell, leaving the sand in the machine, the costumes out to dry in the house of the Tower, the phone in the room, the ham from the fridge, for when we returned at dawn, hungry.
Last night, Nick Cave sounded great on stage. It was the first time since I do not know how long that occurred in Spain. Vanished emotion at the news of the British Irish in the afternoon was found dead in his tent for the sun and the pills, the only thing that mattered to the people of Albion had to do full of beer, bocadillos jamon y queso, and take their seats for the concert of the Australian, the most anticipated event of the festival. But I left there I went to my friends and me ("do un'etruscata, I enjoy it more," say Arbasino), to the smallest of the stage, the one covered under the big top. They thought I was crazy to miss Nick Cave, but the tent was the person I was waiting for since we got into the car in Pamplona. In front of thirty people (the deserters of Nick Cave, or simple Nordic stumbled there by mistake), there was Qrella Masha who was preparing for the concert. I met Masha Qrella the pages of The Wire in the fall, when-in-my favorite moment of the day I came home from classes and it was seven, I put a disc, I lay in bed flipping through the music magazines and dreamed of going to summer festivals. In one of the hard times that came with the British magazine found I want you to know , I was struck by lightning, it was a song that never stopped turn around by the head, a song of love and regret, unadorned and syncopated. The manifesto of my youth, written by someone else. It was dell'indietronica the period of the German scene, the Notwist and Lali Puna, Masha Qrella but the music was not as intellectual, on the contrary, was a handful of love letters written to the drum machine, keyboards colored clouds of Berlin. I listened and I fell in love with the desolate sweetness of those words ("I want you to know my friend / It 's Where We Started Where We not end"), I was curious about his Mina in history (which is a fantastic group) and in contrast, I was losing in his forelock on the forehead, the picture that covered his eyes, mouth, face. Masha Qrella had invented a solo career, to protect his Villa Qrella, the studio that had set up in Berlin, releasing the first disc ( Luck, which also contained the beautiful Hypersomnia ) , with the small-Monika Enterprise, and finally (with the following Unsolved Remained ) to Morr Music, the label of the coolest central Europe, the ECM dell'indietronica.
The sun was setting on Benicassim and I was in the tent in front of Masha Qrella after throughout the year, the sun had set on my room while Unsolved Remained played without pause. As in a dream, Masha sang with her eyes down, hidden behind the clump and the guitar, a bit 'awkward to pronounce certain words, the small audience smiled, thanked him for coming, and I wanted to thank ; you for coming. After a couple of songs just because I was not even my friends had joined me, disappointed by Nick Cave, the huge crowd from the buzz that accompanied his deep voice. Even to say they were surprised (delighted?) from my little secret. We were silent for the entire concert. When finished, I approached the stage, I removed a weight from his throat and spoke to her. Masha Qrella told that I had come to Rome to see her. She blushed, smiled, freed from the front bunch, but he showed me a mouth to kiss her Salome would have had cut his head, thanked me, and I dedicated the piece of paper with the lineup of songs that had played with the blue marker. That package is still attached to the wall of my room.
When we were young we thought that there were moments that would never return, and we were right. We are never more returned to Benicassim, we have not slept in the living room of a castle Mikel, we have not eaten meatballs Arantxa, we have not talked about football with Ignacio, we no longer filled the Golf of sand, we have made plans for the future, we have not hung out on the lawn between the plastic cups, we have not bought shirts Belle & Sebastian, we have not waited a whole year just to know Masha Qrella. Yet not all is lost. For a while 'time I had forgotten to Masha Qrella, until this year published a wonderful album, Speak Low , born commissionatole a bizarre project by Haus der Kulturen der Welt in Berlin part of the "New York-Berlin," in which he played with his dismay at romance, with its gentle concern, even on Broadway songs of Kurt Weill , and Frederick Loewe (listen I talk to the trees to believe). Masha Qrella Sunday evening was in Rome and was to listen even less public that afternoon at Benicassim. Fichissima, hipster must die, the forelock, voice, jeans, hoodies, eyes down for a moment I thought that nothing had changed. I found that its a passion that sometimes opened into a smile, like when you walk under a gray sky and suddenly it is illuminated and warmed by a ray of sunshine. That smile he gave me when I told her the package with his songs that I still have room, and told me that he remembered all me, the concert of that July, Benicassim, Nick Cave - in short, when we were young.
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