Raíz
I sing to all my voices
The RAÍZ project (2022-2023) is the result, the awareness of a very powerful transformation process, of an awakening.
I don’t feel I should directly or completely identify with what I create, with my works—compositions in this case—because in all of them there is a component of truth and another of fiction. Not in equal parts, but there is a character that is created in order to survive, and to which I have undoubtedly been faithful many times in my life as if it were real. In fact, it’s something that still, sometimes, continues to happen.
On the album, there is a Maru from the past, another from the present, and another from the future, who doesn’t yet exist, who is yet to come. There are several Marus, many different voices, that have expressed themselves over a long period of time. And they are so changeable that they leave that ending open, since no one knows what will happen, and something unexpected can be built. I am open to that on the album with great hope.
I’m a very active and eclectic art consumer; I like everything I like. I’ve been inspired by so many styles and so many artists.
For a long time, I felt like something was being reabsorbed and erased within me, and what the process I’ve experienced these past few years, thanks to a great deal of study and internal movement, has taught me is that mine has been growing in reverse, like a root growing, a vital part that no one sees, but that is there, occupying a very important place.
In fang Nchí, it is that part devoid of leaves and flowers but which serves as support; it is that hidden place of a thing and from which the visible or manifest part comes.
Fang is the language of one of the majority ethnic groups inhabiting the country, spoken by several peoples of Central Africa. It’s the group to which part of my family belonged.
As an extreme tree lover, I use them as a metaphor for society. That stem, the leaves, the branches, the flowers… it’s everything that appears, that is perceived, that matters. However, there are other parts that are not recognized because they are not visible, they are not taken into account, everything internal related to emotions and memory, for example; and they are vital.
Raíz speaks of recognizing what we feel, of being honest with ourselves, and then being able to express it by giving it space and love. It speaks of an unsustainable situation that clearly cannot and should not continue.
It also reclaims our body as a vital center, as a personal transformative tool. But it also reclaims the implications it has on our place in the world, the barriers and limitations that society has historically imposed on us being born in one body or another, and their impact on our experience and perception of reality and the world.
Accepting this (what we are and what we therefore perhaps no longer want in our lives), “surrendering,” can help us relate better to ourselves and to others. It guides us toward the search for our own well-being.
Raíz also speaks of a literal or psychological end to the moment of mourning, of wiping the slate clean. Of that desire to move from one place to another, elevating ourselves, transcending.
The songs on the album emphasize the importance of bringing to life all these unknown places within us so that, through this grounding and firmness, we can rediscover our true essence, our authentic selves.
In that search, I came across everything that clings to our memories, what we are told, what we remember. Stories from the past that build our identity and shape our personality to unsuspected degrees.
I like the work of the musician, the artist, as an informant. Composing songs that absorb different influences is the vehicle of our expression, and we share them, linking those origins with the places to which they belong.
And this endeavor focuses on creating voices from diverse backgrounds, giving rise to a multicultural songbook; to create spaces for exchange between cultures, with music as an integrating element.
If RAÍZ is a return to the origin, when I think about where I come from, where we come from, I find that this and many other countries are countries of emigrants. Our story begins with the journeys our grandparents, great-great-grandparents, and even our parents had to make a life for themselves outside of a poor Spain. And now, the story continues with the hope that moves those who arrive and those of us who continue to leave.
I feel that historical memory is essential for building ourselves from an honest place as a society, from its foundations, because it should not be built any other way. And we must recover and preserve it, treating it with courage and respect.
I think emigration is part of our collective roots.
That’s why this process culminates with a long-awaited trip to that country whose roots and memories I carry in my blood and in my skin: Equatorial Guinea, which is intimately connected to our country, as it was a Spanish colony (1926-1956, both the island and the mainland). This is something that many people don’t know about, something that doesn’t appear in books, like so many other parts of our history that we aren’t told.
And with these words, I aim to open a path of identification, expression, and recognition; with emotions and feelings that, in my opinion, are part of the collective memory and unconscious, of our bodies as a political entity.
And after this transcendence, moving, and letting go of all that no longer serves me, I feel ready to redefine, nourish myself with all that is new, all that is unknown, all that remains to be discovered, and all the beauty hidden in the places my feet have yet to set foot in.
I present to you a compilation of authorial music with folkloric influences: “Canciones de ida y vuelta” (Songs of Round Trip).