A small blackout

His name was Jordi Lluís, a businessman, and he died prematurely in 2022 at the age of fifty-seven. He liked Coca-Cola, modern art, spicy pasta, Lisbon, going against the grain, following Atlético Madrid as a mixture of penance and extravagance, and, for Sant Esteve, champagne-laced gutters. He smoked too much, and when he tried to quit, he seemed to apply the Vinyoli doctrine that "Since I stopped drinking, I drink much less." He had the seductive charm of the shy, capable of conveying an ambivalent need to isolate himself from the world and, at the same time, the secret desire to embrace it with selective passion.

When he died, he left behind closets full of good taste and sensitivity: in his clothes, books, furniture, and, above all, his music. When the person who loved him most had to order his absence and assume responsibility for specific things, he discovered, among other things, a Riquelme jersey (from Boca Juniors) and a treasure trove of vinyl records and CDs that explained his biography through the music that, more than accompanying him, had defined him. Rock, pop, jazz, and tons of Brazilian music records, which, on the few occasions he spoke about them, he knew how to distinguish perfectly between the schools of Salvador de Bahía, Rio de Janeiro, and São Paulo.

I thought I wouldn't find tickets for the concert, because, in Barcelona, ​​you know.

They were the artists everyone knows, and many others, whom Lluís followed with the loyalty of a collector, always hoping one would lead him to another, following a tree-like trail of complicities that, by accumulation, formed a unique collection. In this collection, there were a dozen CDs by Guinga, a seventy-four-year-old guitarist and composer of absolute talent, well-known in Brazil, but who, call me ignorant, I had never heard of. Through a fluke of generosity, I inherited a few of these CDs, which I haven't stopped listening to (especially the song "Senhorinha "). A few days ago, I read that Guinga was performing at the Jamboree. I thought I wouldn't find tickets, because, as you know, in Barcelona I'm a disaster with digital purchases. From an unknown dimension, Jordi must have intervened to pave the way for me. Result: with some friends – miracles are meant to be shared – we agreed to meet at the Jamboree gate on a day as un-epic as, in theory, Monday.

Then what happened happened. A blackout, a lack of communication, forebodings of catastrophe, and a loss of signal severe enough to make us understand that the concert would be canceled, leaving us wanting to see and hear Guinga. I also couldn't take refuge in Lluís's CDs because, obviously, the power was out, and compared to so many others affected by the blackout, my problem was reduced to the emotional realm.