Ojalá

I remember vividly my response when I found a live performance of Ojalá on YouTube for the first time, and was extremely moved, in a very physical and visceral way that I normally never really am by music. Right now I am reading a book by Ben Lerner which concerns having a Profound Experience of Art, and whether such a thing really exists. It is a cynical book, and I am a cynical person, but thank God I have this to hold on to.

Every time I return to Ojalá, the feeling comes back. Whatever version of the song I turn to, it's there. Whether it's Silvio alone on his guitar, as it is in the studio version, or done in a sort of barbershop-quartet style, as on the live record with Pablo Milanés, or completely dominated by the audience, as it is here (and on almost every other live recording).

I am aware that it is probably only partly in the song itself. I undertook a few futile attemps to deconstruct, to analyze what it is exactly that moves me so, but then I realized that would ruin everything. For instance, I don't speak Spanish. I am learning it right now, partly informed by this record (and by Victor Jara, Nacho Vegas, Violeta Parra, etc.) but I am increasingly aware that a stronger grip on the Spanish language might only break the spell. I sort of know what the song is about, and that is enough. I'll let the sounds float, let the few words I recognize be impressed upon me.

Ojalá, I feel, does something peculiar to people. It's not just me. Look at every live video of the song available. People are jumping about as if it were a Faithless show, they are crying. In this video, there is a moment when Silvio realizes he has to hand the baton to the audience. He stops singing mid-chorus, and the song soars away as the audience takes it up. There's no big gestures from the singer, no inflated ego, he is just silently smiling to himself, and then gratefully smiling at the audience. That's all there is to it.

Hiding Chekhov's Gun

Legendary Director Peter Bogdanovich: What If Movies Are Part of the Problem?

I told him that's how I saw things. Just the basics, those three colours. The squares perfectly square and perfectly colored in. Everything within the boundaries, nothing leaks out. And behind it a tranquil chaos. That's the phrase that got to him. Tranquil chaos. It was a silly paradox, he said. And besides, he added, things are never like that. They mix, they confuse themselves, become muddled, until everything is a cesspool of indistinction. That's the phrase that got to me. But I didn't have arguments, I just didn´t like the idea of indistinction. I wanted red to be red and blue to be blue, him to be him and me to be me. Sometimes, things get away from me, I admitted. They hide in the darker corners of my mind, and merge with other secrets. They form a big blob together, and attack my primary colors. So far, the base colors have always won, but, yes, it is a frightening idea. It makes me wonder what my true colors are. So I pleaded with him to at least keep my sanity in my art. If we allow the darkness into that, then what is next? He retorted that we need to create a controllable darkness, as a vaccine to the real thing. I argued that it could also get people hooked on the drug. Hooked on the real thing. He looked at me, and slowly shook his head. He snatched my drawing away, and smudged everything out until it was one large, filthy blur. Luckily I had it firmly lodged in my mind´s eye.