Santi Balmes It has no filter, as they say now. At least he doesn’t have the time to talk about himself, which is what he dedicates himself to in these 192 pages. Call it attention deficit, hyperactivity, or overlapping thoughts. Here they are overflowing, and that theoretically is limited to any given day in their life. The balance is exhausting. An inexhaustible imagination. A turbine to connect ideas that is overwhelming. And it alternates sparkling and fun moments with others that are not so successful. I am convinced that he himself knows it, and he assumes it. And I’m sure that’s part of the charm of it.
After all, it is something that has also happened frequently in some of the albums of Love of Lesbian and especially in many of his concerts. The combination of notable moments, in which inspiration flew high, with humor that, at least for me, particularly, made me indigestible and made me forget how much I liked them at the time. “Escapism maneuvers” (2005), “Chinese stories for children from Japan” (2007) and much of “1999” (2009), his first three albums in Spanish.
Here, hilarious moments alternate (I laughed more than once) with others that I find somewhat cumbersome, especially when he engages in surreal imagined conversations with Charles Bukowski. I do like, however, the game that is extracted from many of the chosen songs, grouped in playlists at the end of each section. There are more than a hundred, I think. All from very diverse authors. From The Velvet Underground to David Bowie. And what has convinced me most, by far, about this irregular book without too many pretensions, although it is very well written (to better gauge its literary pulse it already has other works), is the chapter dedicated to explaining what it means to be Catalan. Nowadays: that seems to me to frame. It should be mandatory reading in depending on what areas.
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