Roger Waters, the great fool

I have a friend I have not seen in years. About thirty-odd. For those things that life has, that has a quantity, we returned to find The Basement. A long time ago he wrote to me why he disagreed with something I had written, I do not remember what, and since then we have re-established contacts, not regularly but sporadically; when circumstances do not agree to sponsor it. On the other day he wrote to me asking why in the daily column he had not written anything about Roger Waters' visit. The question was related to the story of a double album, which at one time was both good conversations on a record player for both reasons.

It turns out that in 1980 I lent The wall, from Pink Floyd, a register I had bought on my first trip to the United States. It was a time when anything, anyone, claimed that Made in USA was considered better, whether it was a Levi cowboy, a pair of mushrooms, a cotton t-shirt or a vinyl record. According to him, the imported record sounded better, as if the furrows in the black pasta were deeper. As evidenced by the referent, those were the times when Pink Floyd still existed and one, when the enthusiasm visited him, came to believe that no other group could play better, although The Who, Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple, at maximum volume, it could pass over it. The soul, more than the mind, said it.

So, the friend I never saw asked me why I had not written about Roger Waters, and the answer was simple: because I did not go to the Montevideo recital, and because Waters and Pink Floyd did not interest me anymore. while I wish you were here and then Who is next, Physical graffiti is Exile on Main St., the album that I heard most in my second youth (I lost track of which I am), it is strange, even for me, to say that today I am completely indifferent to both realities: Waters and Pink Floyd. They stopped feeling excited, generating feelings for me. The same does not happen to me for The Who, Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple. At least in my life, like those memories of so long ago that suddenly ceased to matter, because life lives in pure present, Pink Floyd realized its cycle. Therefore, before the question, "how, do not you like it?: The answer is:" no, no more; I have not found anything there in a long time. "

Over the years I have wasted large sums in concert tickets. It's the money I would have to spend on things with a greater lasting effect. Few memories produced with a certain magnificence (Santana, in 1984, Stevie Ray Vaughan, in 1985, The Cure, in 1990); and only one, only one, was extraordinary, of those that leave psychic consequences for the rest of their lives. It was the penultimate concert of the farewell tour – goodbye to life – Leonard Cohen in 2012, and was composed of three hours of absolute poetry, music for the soul spheres. It is the only concert that could have been eternal, although it was: sacred from the beginning to the end; sacred even after the end. I hope that with all this, but not to justify the succulent monetary spending on the tickets. But even in this area life is made up of exceptions. In the choice, the answers were inferior to the disappointments.

Not long ago I spent a fortune at the entrance to a concert by Roger Waters, probably the same one he gave to Montevideo, and I can almost agree with the final sentence of the review written for this medium by Nicolás Tabárez: "It was another galaxy." The visual show was overwhelming from the beginning to the end, marinated by the Francisca girl who was launched into the air as in an era when Rod Stewart launched the soccer balls, and from the young people's chorus, which is abominably false and even mawkish, but good you go to a rock concert with the intention of entertaining, not making moral judgments on the quota or less of the honesty of the 39; scenic aesthetics. Waters is a great fraud, an impostor with capital letters, so we must not believe that his messages are those of Mother Teresa. It is a call of considerable effectiveness. In each tour he goes out to catch illusions and returns with the full net. And with pockets full of US dollarsbecause the currency of capitalism is the only one it trusts.

However, one must be clear before issuing a moralizing judgment (this is not and does not purport to be), that ethics and aesthetics have never been compatible throughout the history of mankind. Moreover, if you make a story in the eyes of a good Cubero you will notice that most of the great creators, in the artistic discipline that is seriously original, do not qualify for being a model or an example of the human condition. Rimbaud, the greatest of modern poets, busy arms; Céline would have liked to see Europe under the Nazi yoke; William Faulkner, perhaps the most copied and brilliant narrator of the twentieth century, hated blacks and homosexuals; Ezra Pound was condemned to death for treason because of his defense of fascism (just before his death he said that Mussolini and the gnocchi were two of the only things that had justified life). Thanks to art, human beings can do something with their madness: they make art more important than the passage of time. Therefore, and has saved the great artistic differences with those mentioned, Waters has every right to exercise demagoguery in his glass building. The problem is the naive who believes and reveres him.

In the mid-1980s, a more sincere and less phony rock musician than Waters, Ozzy Osbourne, told a radio that he would have liked to be considered the great clown of the history of rock. Because of his honesty, free from constraints, we still love him, and every time his voice emerges from the vinyl he gets excited with his delirium without poses or claims of greatness. That's why it will never become a museum piece. Waters competes for the same, because, although quite repetitive (he has done the same thing for too long), he is an extraordinary buffoon. However, an ideological agitator is created with an empirical impact on reality. Last year, in an interview with CNN in the United States, he recommended to those who in a concert prefer the evasion of political comments, which go to see "Katy Perry", not him. Forget the former Pink Floyd that we live in such a banal and superficial world that even political commentaries, especially those close to yours, are escapism. And it is precisely when I'm of that type that people celebrate them and fills the stadiums to listen to them. In this aspect, in fact, the main problem lies in the "combatant" musician.

The deceptive wrapping of Waters' political commentary is not just about the musician's public life. It also moves on stage. It's the most serious thing. Even there, transcendence is absent. The product for sale has nothing sublime or profound. Everything, starting from the letters, is at the level of the surface. Waters is like a doctor who does not know the causes of the disease and treats only the symptoms. When they leave their concerts you can feel that you have seen and heard something "from another galaxy", but as they leave the stadium's borbolls and walk to a less noisy and enlightened place, they begin to forget the spasmodic and a # 39; explosive audiovisual experience. It was a hyper-aesthetic experience, yes, but devoid of metaphysics, deep and convulsive poetry. It was an experience in which the eyes and ears came out triumphant, not the soul and the spirit. They, the two real majesties of our lives, expected something more than songs without a deep and authentic lyricism (who finds a memorable verse that informs him), very well-tested choirs, paraphernalia and pyrotechnics of the epidermis. They expected something more than nothing very well dressed, with an ornament pig and in dolby stereo.

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