Estival

During the summer, burns with magic, the enormous and red flaming sun over the reposed cities of glass, reposed like inert giant lizards of sapphire, like enormous serpents of emerald and ruby, and like colossal chameleons of silver reverberating under a gilded cascade of astral light.  The rivers of gelid and turquoise brave waters overflow their currents and flood daydream gardens and playgrounds where schools of forest fish wander among purple, fuchsia, and white drowned petunias.  Where wild duck and their offspring wander, gone astray between monkey pyramids, between orange, blue and yellow swings painted a la hysteria.  The highlander wind shakes the growling mass of branches of the oak-trees, sown along the boulevard of memories and sown along the centuries of honour of the cavalry heroes fallen in the name of the Royal family.  It also carries in its highlander coming and going, the rumour of the erotic thoughts and the inconsolable affliction of modern pilgrim ghosts. During the summer, burns with magic the enormous boulevard of memories, where during a Sunday of eternal carnival, are devoted only to live, jubilant people dressed in multicoloured tunics, dressed in safari, as camouflaged poets, as anachronic castaways, and dressed in raw-silk gowns that stress their identities of lovers from the forbidden swamp.  Burns with magic this Sunday of eternal carnival, with its crystalline and dreamy eyes of opium-addicted lagoon, flooded with anguish, flooded with shame, flooded with dark tears of lust at the presence of the lightning-blue voice of a feline adolescent woman, roaring with rage before everybody, before God and before no one, to stop staring at her.  As if with a single glance, it was smeared all over her lovely, cruel and disturbing elastic skin of blind fruit, cream of torrid Cuzcatleco delta, sweet and soothing, anointed forever during this summer burning with magic.

Estival I (overture)

The title of this piece came to me in a dream.  I attended an exhibition of Renaissance paintings carried out in an Iberian castle, of those pre-Columbian, and still watched over by gargoyles.  Candles lighted its tenebrous interiors to avoid in the canvasses the damage caused by electric light (although there was a greater reason to avoid its use).  Contrary to what I expected, the air of the atmosphere was fresh, slightly humid, and smelled with the same sweetness as when the world was more primitive.  Three hooded monks guided me and they moved stealthily like pieces of chess in a board of absolute silence.  The paintings of the exhibition were scenes of horrible violence, cynical morbidity and infinite cruelty.  Once the tour concluded, one of the monks opened a small wooden window to let in a ray of sun.  This gave catalysis to the culminating point of the exhibition: At the contact of sunlight, one by one and in reverse of the tour’s course, the canvasses became widespread with small silvery veins, crackled with a noise of tinfoil, and those scenes, infernal and apocalyptic, turned into celestial and paradisiacal.  Astonished and moved by the effect, I dared to speak and asked for the name of that genre.  Like the voices of a fugue, each monk at a time, said the name of the genre and of my new piece: “Estival is the name of Estival is the name of Estival is the name of this genre and of your new song”.

Rivulet

The title of this piece has a double meaning.  First, it is about a music painting, a la Renoir or Monet, in which I portray melodies of a forest brook in the prime of summertime.  Second, it is a tribute to J.S. Bach (“brook” in German).  I admire him greatly: His genius combined virtuoso musical performance with supreme creative powers in which forceful and original ingenuity, technical mastery and marvelous capacity to drink beer were perfectly balanced.

Adiós Manzano

By the time of that rainy afternoon when I came around to say goodbye to my childhood friends, none of them lived there any longer.  In La Manzano only remained parents in their dawn of autumn, only remained centennial elderly buried alive, and only remained adrift three or so nostalgic vagabonds who lied to me out of pity.  It depressed me, the sad state in which I had found La Manzano and made me feel like an outsider.  An overcast sky had caused the streetlights to light prematurely, illuminating with a dull and decrepit light, like one of a senile moon.  In the cracks of the pavement and sidewalks, grew vigorously an invincible weed of intense colours and of a strong odour of cave.  That year, the spider monkeys had returned from the hill of San Jacinto in larger groups and more satanic than before.  The voracious trees, nourished by eternal downpours, had begun to seize everything.  I said goodbye to all those who I could, even if they didn’t know me nor recognize me, and when there was no one else remaining, there was no more for me to do.  I left La Manzano via Main Avenue, and when I passed by the old abandoned mansion of the Alfaros, it stopped me cold, the certainty that from a balcony that had been left with its doors halfway open, someone contemplated my departure.  I had all the right in the world to cry, but I couldn’t.  La Manzano of my memories, the one I wanted to say goodbye to, had disappeared long ago, and whatever it had been once, it would never be again forevermore, until rebirth.

Malabares

I dreamt this theme (perhaps Sir Mordred’s) one morning of lots of breeze and lots of sun during the last days of summer.  To wake up, jump out of bed, run to the piano and write down the idea, was a single action, like jugglery.  As I scribbled on the manuscript paper, I recalled visits to ancient cities, dreadful jet lags, and jugglers of London and Barcelona.  In particular, that red devil of Las Ramblas, who for a few coins, and to the horror of the bystanders, would unroll his tremendously long tongue of viper.  By the way, it is a coincidence that when I perform at some café or tavern, some listener rewards me the same as medieval jugglers, or as better said in the old verse of Gonzalo de Berceo: “Bien valdrá, como creo, un vaso de bon vino”.

Estival Romance

She was a beautiful and slender ballerina, of serene green eyes, long red-haired locks, no older than eighteen years of age, and surrounded by an aura of enchantment typical of the Celts.  She was the most beautiful woman I had seen, and probably would have also been the love of my life.  She sat on the floor in front of me to listen to a Spanish romance.  I dedicated it to her with all my passion and played that piece with the sad sensation of having embarked on a one-way trip to the blinding light of uncertainty.  I lived in full flesh that ardent and fleeting moment that the music of some Madrilenian master now forgotten had afforded me.  I finished the piece and wanted to say all I felt, but my turn to go on stage was up.  When I returned to the dressing room, she had already left and I was overcome by painful anguish of perhaps never seeing her again.  That’s how it was.  No matter how hard I looked for her, I couldn’t find her and in the end there was no other choice than to accept my loss for I didn’t even know her name.  With no consolation for my disappointment, I decided to leave.  I opened the case of my guitar to put it away, did it with a certain distain and felt completely lost.  However, it was inside the case that I found the talisman that would let me be at peace with myself that night and many others, knowing I have been left behind, but always remembered.  It was a note written by her, in which she confirmed out mutual feelings but offered absolutely no hope for anything between us and it read: “You are most beautiful.  I will never forget you nor your song”.  The morning after, this theme was born.

Gabriel’s Rondo

It’s dedicated to my son Gabriel, since it was his idea that I compose this piece for his boys choir.  I had a dream in which I attended a recital where a string trio performed a composition similar to Pachelbel’s Canon in D.  When I woke up, the precious blond girls of the trio were already nothing more than a sigh, but the theme continued to spin in my head.  I wrote it down with the vague idea that it wouldn’t be bad for Gabriel’s choir and saved it just in case.  Shortly after, a young writer of a local newspaper, who launched a good article about my brother’s new CD, was looking for me to play at his wedding ceremony.  His only request:  to compose something “cool” for the entrance of the bride.  Grateful for that of my brother, I put him out of doubt: “Ian, don’t worry, I know exactly what you’re looking for”.  Destiny made me turn the theme I was saving for the choir into a bridal match.  It was also a thing of destiny that I almost collapsed when I noticed that the three maids of honour were identical to the ones of the string trip of the dream (so they seems), and who afterwards bathed in tears of joy, congratulated me (with these same words) for my “beautiful theme of Pachelbel”.  This is how young writers, pregnant brides, mercenary composers and adolescent women in love with Pachelbel ended up winning, all thanks to Gabriel.

The Sonatina of William Arthur

It’s the name in English of my younger brother, Guillermo Arturo.  It’s dedicated to him and to the memory of our good old times.  Unforgettable are the days of our rock bands, out combos of Latino dance music and of our beginnings as professional guitarists with the duo “The Serpas Brothers”.  These years of youth, when we started to “learn to bend notes”, reminded me of the novel “John Livingston Sea-gull”.  The harsh and insatiable struggle to perfect “the art of flying”, takes the young sea-gull to unexpected times and places, sometimes fascinating, sometimes painful, and sometimes fatal  Cheers Memo!  Thank you for “Improvisación X2”, for taking care of the bar tabs that I forgot to pay and for your good name of English knight.

Estival II (finale)

In the afternoon of Friday, June 28 of 2002, the marathon of the recording sessions concluded.  I worked over the weekend and Monday, a holiday, was perfect to do nothing.  It was an incredibly gorgeous day.  I stepped out of my apartment, lit up something good to smoke and started walking with no fixed route, no destination nor any agenda.  I wandered amidst a beautiful flower garden with my hands in my pockets and mu Cuban cigar in my mouth when I recalled once again the words of José Martí: “… And in the confused fragrant world that deep in the shade spreads out, where in solemn silence colossal and eternal flowers begin to grow, and on the back of giant birds awaken endless kisses, smiling and lively, one more angel arises…” .  A year before, I recalled these same words, that morning of June when I started composing this piece, and therefore, this CD.