The best thing about summer is when it starts and the mornings open your eyes wide. The best thing that can happen to you if your last name is Summers and you live in a permanent summer is that those eyes are called Cristina and they speak Spanish with a Brooklyn accent. She is the girl who did not leave with a posh boy and was looking forward to the fall at ‘Radio City Music Hall’. He is in love as if a good boy had just started a group with his colleagues without the slightest suspicion that the whole world will one day end up at his feet. And so they come to La Mudarra, with the humility that only resounding success can give you. Come before
of a concert in the same way that columnists flee with the first one who asks us only to escape from the column. Bullfighters have their rites and we have ours, which consists of pretending that afterwards there was no need to work and not even breathe. Because life is about tame the pressure, whatever you do. On the Brooklyn docks or Los Torozos docks.
David Summers is the guy who has done the most for the reconciliation of the two Spains. It is the reconciliation of the newspaper – our grandparents were in charge of the previous one -, but Summers and ‘Los Hombres G’ have forged the reconciliation of parents with children, boyfriends and girlfriends and of these with their exes, when in the background “Venice” sounds or “The crocodile girls”, which is the ‘Lacoste’ before Tangana. They are the link between two generations, almost three. My parents’ soundtrack, one of those tapes that played in the car when I was a child and they had a miniature ‘Lancia’ and Spain was different: less rich, less dogmatic, but freer, for a scoundrel. The ‘G-Men’ are that group that we used to party with later and that my little brothers now hang out with. Through the themes of ‘Hombres G’, Spain can be structured better than the High Speed train will ever do.
They are the portrait of a distant uncle hanging on a wall who was always there, a core subject of our sentimental education, the necessary lesson that consists in knowing that the pretty girl would always go with another –With or without a yellow sweater–. And then you realize that the more famous and famous the guy, the more normal and the more likeable. Hollywood fame is for stars who won’t make it.
David says that his father used to disguise himself as a bullfighter and was about to make him a cardinal. I reckon he does the same, but disguised as a normal guy, as if he hadn’t been making all of Spain sing for two centuries. As Daniel, his son, says: “Dad, the 21st century sucks.” And he’s absolutely right, but sometimes it’s so worth it …