It was one of those groups
that you see in a pub for a hundred bucks;
coke, beer and sex,
starch mohawks, drinks with cloves.
They were four blokes
of a trouble making intensity
screaming to the world:
"Now our time has come!"
And they played rock and roll,
a bit immature but rock and roll,
a bit dark but rock and roll,
very hard but rock and roll,
if there's no future, long live rock and roll!
Until the summer came
and they were presented to an announcer
who had an arranger friend
who was neighbour of a producer
married to a keyboard player
who was very vanguardist and lover
of an elegant manager
who has a partner with lots of taste
to make business with singers.
And the Visa arrived, with their blackmails,
and began the hurry for the trips
and the laughter was over.
They don't go to the pubs,
they mount their parties privately,
they know to adapt
to the demands of the market;
they did six concerts
with the Duke in the local elections
they came thirds
in the top I-don't-know-how-many.
Now they play plain pop
deliberate but plain pop
a bit boring but plain pop
manufactured but plain pop
Against the past: Long live pop!
Since the summer came
and they were presented to an adviser
of image who was relation
with the neice of a promoter
brother in law of certain designer
who was the wife of a columnist
of that prestigious magazine
for its talent for the stuff
of launching artists.
Now they're yuppies -pictures in tabloids-
they swear for Snoopy, that this rocks,
they nevermind the groupies.
Today they play the optimistic rap
instead of the necessity blues,
even in the dentist waiting room
they sound as background music.
They got with the Portugal vote
in 13th place in Eurovision,
those who swore to eat up life
life ended eating them.
And though their blue suede shoes
have stepped on more than one turd
now they wear Lottuse shoes over the carpets
and they treat Javier Solana informally.
Nobody feel offended,
the morals make me puke
I meant to make a funny story,
with no relation to reality.
May certain critic over there
get lame of the three legs
if I lie when I say I never
ask for advices and I never gave them.
Unless that guy in the mirror
who teases me a lot,
sometimes he gives me the finger and says
"nobody can stand you, man"
After all the only thing happening
is that I needed to write (to eat)
a song to finish once and
for all this longplay.
I'd just love, instead of this reggae,
to have written Rhapsody in blue
Chelsea hotel1, Guantanamera,
Tatuaje 2, or She Loves you (yé, yé, yé).
Pedro Navaja3, Like a rolling stone,
Dos gardenias para ti,4
Mira que eres canalla 5, No hago
otra cosa que pensar en ti, 6
Marieta 7, La estatua del jardín botánico 8,
Moon over Bourbon street.9
What's my fault if the furthest I got
is to Pongamos que hablo de…10
Pongamos que hablo de…
Pongamos que hablo de… maní
si te quieres con tu novia divertir…11
1. Leonard Cohen song2. Concha Piquer song3. Ruben Blades song4. Famous bolero5. Luis Eduardo Aute song6. Joan Manuel Serrat song7. George Brassens song8. Radio Futura song9. Sting song10. Pongamos que hablo de madrid, Joaquin Sabina song11. An excerpt of El manicero