#469: Manu Chao, ‘Clandestino’
Virgin, 1998
I think what is special about Manu Chao is that he feels truly global. He slides from Spanish to French to English and back to Spanish again. Manu Chao is a Spaniard who grew up in Paris and effortlessly plays through both cultures and romances and holds a dark glass to my face so all I can see is my crude American-ness. I love being American but I hate being reminded of it.
This album does another thing to my psyche. It makes me feel guilty, sort of my bed-fellow emotion borne of the pandemic. I don’t know how to honor the gravity of the world changing without justifying my intense safety choices via a soundtrack of melancholy and introspection.
I don’t know how this album fits into my world right now, into my own space.
This year I have had little seedlings of stress over having *too much* fun while others are suffering. When restrictions lightened here in Colorado for a couple weeks, I felt almost bad about being haphazard with my mask while watching my friends in NYC and London doubling down.
The only confidence in my own ethical code has been in comparing my hygiene efforts to others more foolish than myself. I feel safe and morally aligned when I am filled with disgust scrolling through Instagram at concerts, lavish vacations and other things I deem are superspreaders.
These comparisons have been the most effective tool in softening my own pangs of guilt for going to a museum or a restaurant while new variants are multiplying in my own nostrils.
On top of this, I am experiencing a paranoia of infecting my 97 year old grandfather who I am staying with on and off.
Sitting here contemplating age and loss and family dynamics and people who write terrible emails that read at a scale of 9 when they intended a 2 creates knots in my stomach. I am sitting in my grandfather’s 73 degree house feeling happy that I get to be here but nervous about bringing him infection. It’s a quick crawl to the mercy of Zoloft.
Tonight, he had what seems to be a mini stroke. I am not sure. His body was shaking and he held my hand and looked down. My insides are rattled and I am mixed up in wondering if I should pray for his body to pass on or if I should pray that he stays with me.
Listening to this album right now while my grandpa is waiting for the Uber Eats guy to bring Burger King, a new and exciting development in his life, feels like that quiet perceived foolishness of laughing and smiling and planning trips at the height of mass dying.
I think I will press pause on Clandestino for now. I will save this album for a fair weather day in the future. When I am not panicking over my own immune system nor holding my grandfather’s hand while he falls asleep reading the newspaper.
I can’t carry the life, joy and energy of this album right now.
Top songs: Bongo Bong, Luna y sol