LOS DESPRECIABLES, as I see them.

PART I

You will excuse me if I tell this story in the first person. But, as it happens, it is My life in Los Despreciables, not anybody else's. Really, it is not due to a lack of modesty, but because I quite know my own life, and not that of the others. Ok, then.

More or less, Los Despreciables were born that evening when Garci won Hollywood's Oscar for To Begin Again. Around that time, I was studying Geography and History at the Complutense University (yes, we're no kids anymore…). One morning, a couple of classmates came overexcited because the night before they had been to a radio station where they had taken some pictures with Garci and his Oscar. I'd never heard of such radio station, nor of the show where the awarded director had been invited. They happened to be, respectively, Antena 3 and Stardust. I started to listen to that show, I got hooked to it and… to make a long story short, I ended working there. (Please, nobody take hasty conclusions nor similarities with Eve Harrington, because there are none. For Heaven's sake!) I spent two and a half years working with Carlos Pumares, to whom I owe many things (not money, funnily enough; he must be a true exception…). Among them, having met a most interesting "human group" (I won't say names: I don't want to brag, but some of them are really famous nowadays. Really famous…). And, from that group, I'll only highlight one name: Juan Antonio Despreciable (not his real surname. Really). Today, he is one of the people I love, respect and admire, but that distant evening of October 83 (to be precise, the 23rd) did not augur the best of relationships. To say the truth, he received me at the sound control room (where I had entered carrying more than 30 vinyl lp's -for the younger readers, that's the old cd, only bigger and heavier--, tapes, "revox", sheets, etc…) with these words: "Hi, Marconi, ready to succeed?". That, said by a man who's much taller than I, much bigger than I, and much… well, not much older than I, but much more experienced in the medium (more than anything, because I had no experience at all): well, uttered by such a guy, those words impress, don't they? That's how I remember my first encounter with Juan Antonio. As time went by, I think he ended liking me, because, once the show was over and Pumares went home, Juan Antonio used to take me to the station's record library and played me records by bands whose name rang a bell to me, but of which, I confess my ignorance, I had heard almost nothing. Or plain nothing: Allman Bros. Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Robert Palmer… I came from another field, more like Sammy Davis Jr., Dean Martin, Liza Minnelli, Streisand, Judy Garland. Most of all, Juan Antonio made me aware of one of the greatest musicians and singers you'll ever see: the extraordinary Javier Ruibal. Some nights, a most funny guy used to come to the station: according to J.Antonio, he was an amazing rock and roll guitarist, but he looked like anything but a rocker. He had been in a couple of bands I had heard of (Bulldog…), but, above all, he was a saint: more than once he went, late in the night, to VIP'S coffee shop to get some pancakes with chocolate and similar junk food. Well, as it happens, that guy's name was, and is, Josele. But I'll get back to him later on.

Let's move forward a couple of years. Because, on October 1985 -and after giving up my History studies- I signed on for the Faculty of English Philology (As if you didn't know by now - Ed.) I know this fact is totally uninteresting. But, as it happens, there I would meet the second vertex of this first triangle. Besides, shit happens, he is, of all the people I know, the person I've loved, love and will love the most: Mauricio Despreciable (not his real surname. Really.) Mauricio and I used to share some subjects and, although we didn't know each other, we had (we would admit it later) some kind of rivalry in English. Blame it on being young. The day came when we talked for the first time: it was May, 14th, 1986, at the Auditorium of the Faculty of Philology, after a play by Plautus, Maenechmi (you'll discover that we, Los Despreciables, do much more interesting things than play rock'n'roll. Really.), where he was one of the leading characters. Truth is, I was surprised that a guy with those looks (it was almost 20 years ago: handsome, cool, a bit "bold"…) was an actor, an a good one. After the performance I went down to the dressing rooms to congratulate the players and I found him playing an old upright piano, out of tune. However, it didn't sound badly. That was too much: he knew music, as well. He told me he was the keyboard player in a pop band called Osato Pechato. And right then, this story began. I don't know how -I guess I sort of fooled them, or they believed whatever they wanted-I ended being their manager/sound and lighting tech. Oh, and every now and then I got up onstage to fool around, singing covers of Cocaine, Stand By Me, et al. Time went by, and the band lost his two guitar players, which happened to be brothers (Attention: they just left, no tragedy here of the Lynyrd Skynyrd kind…), and I remembered that guy with whom I had shared so many hours of music in the night. I turned up at his door (then he had no phone… and stayed that way for a long time. You can imagine how delighted I was every time I had to contact URGENTLY with him.), and, after skinning my knuckles (he had no bell, either: This guy lived just like Ted Nugent, but right in the middle of Madrid!) he opened the door. I had wakened him from his siesta. I told him the state of things and he immediately agreed, on one condition: he would join the band only as a sideman, that is, he would play whatever they told him to play, not taking any decision on his own. Amazed and delighted, I ran to tell the good news to the other three osatos. How candid! The first rehearsal came and it only took Juan Antonio 13 minutes to take control of the situation, giving instructions to the drummer, the bass player and the singer. Well, the thing is that, with that line-up, Osato Pechato lasted for less than a year. Much less.

As I should've guessed, the singer/bass player quit the band. Dilemma: now, what can we do? "No problem", said Juan Antonio. "My brother Fernando (Despreciable. Not his real surname. Really. But he IS his real brother.) will play the bass, and he is really good, and you'll sing." I was expecting for him to say "and you are really good", but nothing. Well, a few days ago he said something similar. But I guess it's because, after all these years, he has sort of softened a bit. Well, I'm getting lost. Back to the story. There we were, four of the Despreciables you all know: the drummer was the same one from Osato Pechato. But our name wasn't that, anymore: now we were Two floors to the Basement. Why? Why not? Besides, according to Juan Antonio's theory, "a band's name is built as time goes by. Is there a sillier name than Radio Futura or El último de la fila (The last one in the line)?". Might be, but I have the feeling that, no matter how much time went by, our name got "less built" than theirs. As Two floors… we lasted for three years, more or less. Our repertoire was made of, fifty-fifty, our own songs (Juan Antonio's and Mauricio's) and covers of well-known classics. But our end came in May 1992, with a farewell gig at El Gato, a bar near Plaza de España, Madrid. For that splendid occasion, we had the privilege of counting with the help of a great British sax player, Owen Thomas. That's luxury, or what? It's a pity Owen had learned all his songs in the same key as they sounded on their original recordings: obviously, it was not the same key in which we played them. He had a hard time trying to play them. But, as I said, he's a great musician, and he sorted it out quite OK.
And, so far, the first part of our history.

PART II: THE SEQUEL

This is the starting point of the second (and, so far, latest) part of our history. Los Despreciables were reborn (o were born as you know them now) thanks to a TV series, ¿Quién da la vez?, [Who's next?] directed by Vicente Escrivá. Imagine!.

It was May, 1994. I (always I, I, I, I… Fuck, who's writing this? OK?) was in Antena 3 TV to audition for that soap opera, (where I would end playing a skinhead). I remembered that J. Antonio was working there, so, as I had some time, I asked for him. After some warm and tender hugging (Any problem? We may be rockers, but we have our heart) I told them what had brought me there, and he told me that the sound tech in charge of the audition was a n.1, a very young guy -he was already very young, back then!--, named Ram{on Despreciable (Not his true surname. Really.) He also told me that he was going cold turkey (is it right?) for rock and roll, and that there, at Antena 3 TV, he'd been playing with some guys, just to "pass the syndrome". And that, among those guys, there was a drummer… "Do you remember Coz?". "Yeah, sure." "Well, that one, Cutu." "Well, I've been talking with Mauri, and he's going cold turkey, too." To make a long story short, all of you may have guessed that we realised that all of us wanted to fool around a bit. And that is how, thanks to a TV series, J. Antonio, Mauricio, Fernando and I got together again, and we met Cutu Despreciable (Not his real surname. Really. But, apparently, it is his real name. At least, I swear I don't know any other name of his…) and Ramón.

First, we summoned a rehearsal session, just for the sake of playing, at the old place: I won't say its name, since, apparently, it couldn't be used as a rehearsing room (well, we've only used it for 17 years…). This time, our repertoire would consist exclusively of covers of quite well-known songs. We ended that first session quite happy. Josele was also there (although I'm not quite sure about this). It was really fine, I seem to remember, and, most of all, it set the pattern for the 12 or 13 rehearsals we've done since (no, I'm not exaggerating. Or, at least, I'm not exaggerating too much.): usually, all of us would come to the rehearsal quite angry because of our jobs -or the lack of them. Well, after half an hour, nobody remembers why they were pissed off. Shortly after that "just for laughs" session, everything changed: someone had booked us to play two gigs in Torrelodones, near Madrid. It was July, 1994. To overcome my nerves and stage fright (of which, many years before Valdano spoke about it, The Band had sang about in their biographical Stage Fright), I decided to adopt a rock star pose, and an outfit which was 50% a tribute to Robert Palmer (God bless him) and Brian Ferry: that is, a three-piece suit and a tie. And, like the Roxy Music one, I used to begin every gig looking really smart… and finish them soaked in sweat, shirtless… I remember we used to open our gigs with Palmer's Simply Irresistible. A great song that we don't play anymore. Like many others. There's a reason for this: ever since we got started the band, we decided that, should any member of the band (one member is enough) refuses to play a particular song, this one disappears immediately from our repertoire: if you could take a look at the list of tunes we've rehearsed only to play them once or twice (or even, not at all), you'd freak out.

Anyway, we were in Torrelodones, by the end of July 94. That is, more than eleven years ago. Oh, My God, so far, we've lasted longer than The Beatles! Of course, they did slightly better than us. Slightly better. Well, what you're about to read now is not a more or less official record of the band. First, nobody has cared enough to carry a diary, so it's more than likely that some of the dates and stories are wrong, or that they even did not happen to us, but to other band. Besides, our concerts are way too long, and my memory begins to fail.

Anyway, don't ask me! All in all, as Pete Townshend said about Roger Daltrey "What do you want? He's just the bloody singer." (I think it was Pete Townshend. Well, I told you, my memory is not what it used to be.)

Now, I'd like to begin this recollection of souvenirs telling you something that is utterly true -I swear it-and likewise frightening (since something similar has happened more than once). It was an afternoon of that distant July 94. I was at home, listening to some big hits CD by the Kinks. More specifically, I was listening to Lola, thinking that I'd love to play it with the band. A couple of hours later, the phone rings. It is J.Antonio. After the usual hellos, etc, he asks me: "Hey, Javi, do you remember a tune by the Kinks, Lola? Cos' I'd like to play it." Believe me, it happened just like that. Frightening, isn't it? Fuck, I find it frightening. Maybe it's because I'm just a sissy…

Besides our brutal volume, another feature of Los Despreciables, since their birth -as a band, not as individuals, of course-is that every gig we invite to sing/play with us as many friends as they are there. There have been many of them. So many that it would be impossible to name them all: Matraco, Flecha, Oscar Perversa (what a guy), Fernández Sastrón, Alvarito, Ainhoa (who was a regular for a long time), Ali and his many harmonicas, that most respected jazz bassist (and music maestro) Alejandro Vaquerizo Ticol, etc. I couldn't forget a "very special guest" who sang with us one night. She was slightly famous as a TV personality, and spent the whole song trying to catch the key and the tempo. I was singing some parts of the tune, and I was sweating blood, although in the end it wasn't that terrible. The thing is that, two weeks later, one of those magazines, sort of Hello, featured a photo of the gig, saying we were her new band. If you ask me, had I been invited back then to one of those talk shows in TV, I would've earned huge amounts of money… But no, they didn't call.

Another very good friend who also sang with us some time is the amazing Juan Luis Cano. I know all of you have heard him singing flamenco, but he's also an incredible blues singer. Particularly, singing the Allman Bros.' One Way Out. That's why, when we had the chance to redord a live album, we counted on him for that song. It's a shame that, due to some sound problems, the tune couldn't be included in the final mix. But it's OK, since that record came out really bad: the guys at the pressing plant did what they wanted, so the sound was awful. When we asked them to re-release the cd, this time following Ramón's instructions (and J.Antonio's and Fernando's, I guess), the plant was burnt down. Down to ashes. So, any of you who has a copy of "Esto es un sin dios", keep it, treasure it: who knows? Maybe in 50 years it'll be worth a million quid. Or maybe not. Anyway, I think it was that same night -the one of the live album-when, alter the gig, a couple of very excited teenagers came into the dressing room (yes, it's true, that venue had dressing rooms!) shouting: "Hey, guys, what a show! What a gas! And, especially, what a great English version of Minha Terra Galega!! I'm not kidding. Nobody was cruel enough to tell them that Sweet Home Alabama (of which the aforementioned Minha Terra… is a version) was more than 25 years old. Well, more than once we've been congratulated for our "so rock'n'roll" version of Clapton's Layla. That Unpluggedmania is more harmful than meets the eye!

At the beginning of this chapter, I told you of my "stage disguises" (actually, I still do it. The day will come when I go onstage dressed like Diana Ross, high heels included, I promise. Now, the mess I can organise walking down the narrow stairs of La Frontera may make history…) Well, after the "crooner" phase, it came another trend: the jailbait rappers Marky Mark style. You know, low jeans, open shirt, the slips' label showing above the jeans' waist… Of course, Marky Mark looked much sexier than I, but he used to work out and shaved his chest, and that way it is much easier. Well, somebody had hired us to play in a huge disco, open air, near Toledo. We got to the disco with a huge and really expensive sound and lights gear. While we were setting our equipment all over the stage, Cutu said one of those things that really characterise such a great guy: when asked "Where do we put the drums, Cutu?", our Spanish rock legend replied deadpan: "Where it is less of a disturbance". That's savoir faire. After the sound check, we went to have dinner to a hotel regularly occupied by hunters. As always, we were more than twenty at the table. Then, I, that was totally into that "rock star" thing, told Fernando (he's the one in charge of ordering menus et al.) that all I was going to have was an omelette and a bit of salad, so I wouldn't feel to heavy during the show. He laughed heartily and ignored my suggestion. Finally, I ate like all of them, that is, like beats: salad, red meat, mushrooms, you name it. We were like Asterix and Co. Luckily, the gig would start no sooner than 2'30 a.m, even later. We went back to the disco and found it packed with kids, pill-poppers style (lots of lycra, lots of spandex, lots of really tight t-shirts, lots of water bottles, lots of lost sights…) As well, there were maybe one hundred of people closer to their thirties, even thirty something. We went onstage and it happened what I feared: J.Antonio's first guitar riff and all of those kids fled to the opposite wall of the venue. Some of them, brave enough (or was it the Mitsubishi effect?) stayed sitting by the huge sound speakers. Or maybe it is that the subwoofers' vibration is as hallucinogenic as a smiley pill. Fifteen minutes into the gig, I had already unbuttoned my shirt, and was showing proudly the elastic waist of my briefs. Suddenly, I see Fernando coming to me, laughing wildly, and he whispers to my ear: "Javi, the owner says you must cover yourself, they can see your brief's elastic." Well, what happened to those guys: hadn't they seen a Calvin Klein ad in their lives? Or is it that they had an exclusive contract with Versace? Finally, I had to button up my shirt, not to hurt those people's sensibilities.

And speaking of cold reactions from the audience, I remember two gigs: the first one was at a bar that no longer exists (I hope we had nothing to do with it) , Fata Morgana, in Villaviciosa de Odón. We played there two different times. The first concert was packed with friends of ours. It was such a good night, that we came back a few weeks later. And this time, only three or four people came with us and the audience was made up of seven kids, pill-popper style, who spent the whole gig elbowed at the bar, ignoring us, or going to the loo, two by two.

The second time of which I was talking happened at a bar in Alpedrete. I must say, in defence of J.Antonio (whose riffs sound really loud: have you seen This is Spinal Tap? Well, something like that. It also goes up to eleven…) that almost every bar owner swears, at the very moment of signing us, that "here you won't find any problem with the volume. Here you can play as loud as you want". And then, problems start to arise at the sound check. "A bit softer, please". It's what J.Antonio always says: you either play rock and roll loud, or you don't play it at all. The problem with this place was that it wasn't conditioned at all for concerts. In fact, the ceiling was so low that I pretty much doubt that Mikc Fleetwood could stand up there. To make a long story short: it happened the same thing that in Toledo: just the first riff, and almost everybody left the bar. So bad for them: that was our first and last performance of AC/DC's You want blood. My nodules still remember it. Fondly.

Among the typology of bar owners/managers, we've met quite a peculiar bunch of them. Allow me to omit their names, and to use only their initials just in case there's a slight possibility of playing there again. Arguably, the best one is (and I swear there is no soaping at all, here) is Paco Andreu, from La Frontera. Not only does he care to keep a good concert listing and to "spoil" the musicians, but he has also started a great school of bar owners (Angelito Pinedo, Oscar, etc.). So, Paco, let us say it once again: Thanks a lot. The bad thing is that, for every Paco you meet, there are ten jerks who run a live music bar without knowing anything on the matter.

An example: a bar in Madrid, let's call it BBB. We played there for two consecutive nights. The first one, everything went fine, except for a blackout all over the neighbourhood, which kept us waiting for more than an hour: when we finally started to play, there was smoke all over the bar. It was just like a John Carpenter movie. The second night, something even worse happened: the owner, one of those "No problem with the volume here" guys, decided, out of the blue, that we were too loud and, with a smack, pushed our sound tech, Ramón, away from the mixing desk. Once the gig was over, and after hearing the news, Juan Antonio (sorry, brother, it's always you who has to solve things, Thanks for that, and for so many things.) had some words with the owner. No comment. Another disturbance: downtown's HT. We'd already placed there a few times, always with a good response from the audience. Well, the thing is that, one night, the guy in charge of the gigs called us to say that, before our show, there would be another band playing, so we would have to set our instruments and do the sound check… with the audience watching. When we refused (well, actually it was again Juan Antonio who talked to him) the conversation got more and more heated. And you know, too much heat never can be good. Conclusion? We've never played at the HT again. Too bad for them. This also applies for the guys from ChC, where we had enjoyed many a good night of r'n'r, till they decided to transform the place into a disco at one o'clock a.m. That meant every band had to end their concert no later than 12'30. I said it then, and I repeat it now: don't applaud too much, you'll ruin the show.

In this "bad experiences" section, there's a night I remember with mixed feelings: joy and bitterness. It was in Aluche, at the late open air auditorium. It was Seni's big nioght. In fact, it was just like when The Eagles played in the hometown of one of their guitar players and singers, Joe Walsh (don't make me look it up in the books. That's what Google is for, you lazy bunch.): there, they were Joe Walsh and the Eagles. Seni had a ball, like a kid (deep down in his soul, he's still a kid. He'll always be "the new one", like Ron Wood in the Stones, even if he's been a member of the band for more than eight years, now.) The bitter part came at the end of the show, when we heard that we had been vetoed in some towns, north of Madrid (run, I guess, by those moderate centre-right politicians.), just because, in the chorus of Free Bird, this asshole who's writing these lines rises his left fist. Anyway, I could go on telling more stories like these, but I can feel how I'm getting invaded by a deep sadness: everything could be so easy, playing rock and roll with some friends should be so funny. Then, why is it that some jerks try so hard to fuck things up? I don't know. Honestly, I don't know.

I'd like to close this chapter on Los Despreciables' "most memorable nights" with one of the icings on the cake: it was a show organised by the City Hall of Madrid, in an enormous tent close to a huge shopping mall, La Vaguada. We had a lighting equipment that would've made Pink Floyd really envious, dry ice (I think that's the English term: you know, that kind of smoke that looks so great on U2's gigs and in musicals such as Les Miz, but which dries your throat up to unbearable limits) and lots of other tricks. We had everything.. but an audience. I mean, it was a venue designed for thousands of people, and I could see there were no more than one hundred, so everything looked a bit cold. But it was us who provided the gem of the night: I think it was during the Stones' Brown Sugar. Suddenly, a few bars into the song, I realised there was no other sound than the drums and my hand claps. I turned to see what was happening and I could see, squeezed together around the keyboard, Mauri, Fernando and Juan Antonio, arguing over the key of the song, or if its chorus was in G, or some other big question.
So this is it. It's over. Not the band, (although it's about time, don't you think? Well, we'll talk about it) but these notes. I've already said that we've been together for more than eleven years. Some people have joined us, some have left. But, in general, things have worked out pretty fine. So, all I have to do now is say thank you to ANA, ANDREA, CUTU, INMA, FERNANDO, JOSELE, JUAN ANTONIO, MAURI, RAMÓN, SENI and YOLI for that Friday night, once a month, at La Frontera. There, for almost three hours, I can forget everything else and be happy. Older, with infirmities and cramps, with my regards to Mr. Fender and Mr. Les Paul, but happy. And that is because of you. So, thanks a million, and a big kiss.

Madrid, summer of 2005

SOBRE ANA

My "ethical adviser" has just given me a lecture, saying I'm a misogynist. And that's not true. Really. In fact, of all the guys from Los Despreciables, I'm the one who's closest to the feminine soul. And I'm not kidding. There was a reason for not talking too much about "the girls", and very easy to understand (I hope): although all of them are a real pleasure from the musical point of view, one of them is something else, she's much more than that. And I didn't want to single her out. But, after this homily, I've been thinking that she deserved it, indeed. Mainly, because she's an actress, too. I mean, I'm not an actress, but she is… Well, whatever. Ladies and Gentleman, the extraordinary, the one and only, the megadiva… ANA DESPRECIABLE!!!

Why Ana, and not anybody else? It's very simple: Andrea sings like an angel, buy we haven't still got that "Sonny & Cher"/sexy thing onstage; Yoli's got a voice like a thunder, she's very much like Patti Labelle (Google, you illiterate), but she sings in a mixture of Gaelic and Creole that makes my A + in English Philology gets mad wherever it is (sorry, Mauri: shit happens); Inma is an awesome gal, and she sings very well… whenever she overcomes her stage fright. But my Ana is… my Ana is my other half. I must admit that she disarms me. Picture, if you can, the scene: I've been onstage for almost one hour and a half, sweating, knackered, on the verge of having a heart attack and a hernia at the same time, and, suddenly, there she comes a radiant blonde, whose smile would make the very same Julia Roberts jealous, whose look irradiates a shining similar to that of the diamond that Richard Burton gave to his two times wife, Elizabeth Taylor (ok, just in case you got fed up with Google, they were two actors -he died in 1984, having won zero Oscars, even if he was one of the greatest actors ever; she's got two Oscars and has been married some seven or eight times, and, for some years now, she's been one of the greatest activists against AIDS. Bravo, Liz!), and whose niceness makes Jim Carrey and Tom Hanks look like Schwarzenegger and Bush at a gay wedding. Besides, she sings really well. There's only one drawback with her: no matter what she's singing, she'll always be, for me, little orphan Annie, singing The Sun Will Shine Tomorrow… She's a hell of an actress (and I should know: I played with her in a play, and she shone) with very bad luck; but it's not her fault. Blame it on the jerks that call themselves casting directors in Spain. Had they more sight and less prejudices, things would be much better… Well, as for Fruca (a private joke, shared with some RESAD students), all I know is that, with Ana on my side, I have a much better time onstage: I can't think of anybody else who can dance some rumba while the guitar players exchange solos on I Can't Stop Lovin' You, or that can tell me a joke in the middle of a song. I don't know: I love her, very much. There's only one thing with her that I don't like: when I started working on TV, this gal had been kind of a star for some years. And she was/is a perfectly normal human being. And that's a bonus, since I've met so many jerks that, being much less than her, act as if they were De Niro or Julianne Moore. Well, let's finish: Ana, Fruca, blondie… thank you. I adore you.

Madrid, Autumn of 2007? (It's been a hell of a long P.S.)