Why Spain loves rancid foreign musical clichés

Easy: in a country prone to civil war it’s important to have something everyone can agree on, regardless of their local ethnic and linguistic allegiances. The Balkans form the obvious comparison: chronically incapable of even vaguely democratic self-government, they imported German princes in the nineteenth century and are now erecting statues of Bob Marley. So I suppose you could say that when sweet young things stop asking you at parties whether you like the Beatles, it’s a sign either that base and superstructure have moved on or that we’re in for interesting times.

During this walk the other day with the man who threw his underpants at Tom Jones and his gorgeous new missus we had a bizarre bar conversation with another man who, thanks to the intervention of the Mustangs and someone else, got in free to the Beatles concert in the Monumental bull ring in 1965. The merits of each of the fab four were expounded, and the conclusion reached that John was the leader, Paul the creative, Ringo the loony, and, finest and strangest of all, Jordi Khárison, Catalan guitar god.


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