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[title]Ismael Serrano returns to Buenos Aires with Guitar and Voice, an acoustic format that brings him back to his essence: one man, a guitar and a handful of stories capable of suspending the noise of the world. The Spanish singer-songwriter —who has been visiting the city since 1997 and moves around with the familiarity of a local among bookstores, bodegones and porteño bars— arrives at the Teatro Ópera for two unique performances, on November 26 and 27 (tickets here), before continuing his tour through La Plata, Rosario, Bahía Blanca, Olavarría, Tucumán and Córdoba.
In this intimate show, Serrano revisits classics that have become part of the emotional memory of several generations, surprising versions and some new songs. “A life without music is just an etcetera,” he says. And this show, precisely, proposes the opposite: a night to feel alive again, accompanied, with a guitar as a guiding light.
Every time you visit Buenos Aires, what are those cultural or gastronomic stops that you can’t miss?
I’ve been visiting Buenos Aires for many years, since ’97. And yes, in the end you find your bookstores, your restaurants. There’s a bookstore I almost always visit, Eterna Cadencia, which is also a publishing house. There’s another bookstore I really like called Librería del Pasaje. To eat, I like Sudestada; La Dorita is a must for a good asado. From time to time I grab a drink at El Rey de Copas, and I used to go a lot to La Florería. I don’t visit as many museums as I’d like. Last time I went to Colón Fábrica, in La Boca, where all the Teatro Colón sets are. It’s a beautiful outing, and you can also take the chance to go around Caminito and that whole area. The museum is great; I didn’t know it and I liked it a lot.
This acoustic format leaves you more exposed, closer. What happens to you on stage when the song depends solely on the guitar and your voice? What are you trying to convey on this tour?
It’s like going back to the essence. In those early cafés where I started, I understood that music is almost a live dialogue. Not always explicit: I think listening becomes more active when it’s just you and the guitar. There’s a greater connection. That allows the repertoire to flow more, the concert not to be as rigid as when you’re accompanied. We’re coming from a symphonic concert, where everything is much more directed: 40 musicians and everything has to follow a more organized and more rigid structure. But not in this case: this format lets you flow differently.
“Music is almost a live dialogue”
And I think it’s an exercise in honesty with oneself and with the audience. It’s also a way of reclaiming the canon in a context in which the term “singer-songwriter” is so underrated. Sometimes it demands a certain sophistication that feels fake, right? It’s about reclaiming the ability to focus our attention on a person with a guitar who tells stories. In times of attention deficit —times in which we struggle to engage with a narrative, which I believe is one of the factors working against singer-songwriters in the digital world— that lack of attention means the content we propose barely gets past 15 seconds. So building a narrative in that context is very difficult, and you compete on very unequal footing. We’re not artists who create a musical meme that can be repeated on TikTok ad nauseam. So, against that trend, it’s a way of reclaiming another sensitivity: concerts where storytelling and the spoken word are deeply present. At least that’s the proposal I’m interested in making.
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You’ve collaborated with huge artists, from Joaquín Sabina to Abel Pintos. Is there any collaboration you still have pending or one you wish you had done?
I really need to get moving! The other day I saw Silvio Rodríguez with Milo J and it was super beautiful. I also like Lali’s boldness. I’m increasingly enjoying those unexpected collaborations. In fact, I’m currently working on a project called Unexpected Recordings, which is about doing versions, covers of songs no one would associate with me. That kind of collaboration would be cool to do.
Your songs speak a lot about the passage of time. At this stage of your life and career, what inspires you? What would you say remains your creative drive after so many years?
I think, in some way, all songs speak about the passage of time, inasmuch as they try to preserve experiences that marked you and made you feel alive. Most songs are written because it’s hard to deal with the loss and the letting go imposed by time. It’s hard to let go, and one writes songs precisely to hold on to a bit of the feeling, the emotion that a certain situation or relationship gave you. Sometimes you also sing to celebrate life. Everyone sings for whatever they need, I suppose, but yes, I think 80% is a therapeutic exercise to cope.
“Most songs are written because it’s hard to deal with the loss and the letting go imposed by the passage of time”
Now that I’m writing, I ask myself many questions about what to sing about. On the one hand, inevitably, you sing about what you’re going through: when you fall in love, when your heart breaks. That’s always there. Songs about the stories you witness, the things you see. But lately I also wonder how we’re building a collective narrative. To speak of “us,” which I think is something we’re losing. To appeal to us in a context so filled with pessimism. I think being an optimist is almost a militant act. Pessimism demobilizes in many ways; it’s often a political tool. Not long ago I heard a great author I admire here in Spain, Quique González, say that we must distinguish between melancholy and nostalgia: he said nostalgia was reactionary and melancholy leaned more to the left, more progressive. And it’s true that one can’t fall into nostalgia, into thinking that any past time was better. Melancholy is something else: it makes you value, remember, cultivate memory; revisit things from the past because they marked you and led you to be who you are. But nostalgia is dangerous, and I try to fight it. Although melancholy sometimes takes you to certain places, I try to write songs that help you lift your gaze. I’m not saying they need to be celebratory, but they should help you understand you’re not alone. That’s what music is for too: to help you feel accompanied.
“I try to write songs that help you lift your gaze”
Do you remember any live-show anecdote—moving, unexpected or surreal—that left a mark on you?
Yes, many, of course. I sing a song called Recuerdo, about a man who thinks he sees a woman he loved long ago sitting across from him. He hesitates because she looks like her, but he doesn’t know if it’s really her. And while he hesitates, he remembers the life they shared, the love, and he doesn’t know whether to approach her or not. The song ends with a question mark. I remember that after a concert —I always met with the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo— one of them came up to me and said something unexpected: “I really liked that song. You don’t know how many times I ran off a bus because I thought I saw my daughter in the crowd. I ran and ran after her, and when I caught up and found her, it was never her. But there was that resemblance.” Those experiences… Meeting the Mothers and Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo is one of the most moving and beautiful things in my life.
What music, album or artist have you been listening to lately or would you like to recommend?
There’s a band here that I really like, they’re friends, called Siloé, and I think they’re going to Argentina soon. It’s a band I’m into. Then I think there are many female singer-songwriters who are leading the way. Here in Spain, María Rozalén, who I think is the paradigm of the modern singer-songwriter. That’s what I’ve been listening to lately.
What will we find in the Guitar and Voice show at the Teatro Ópera, compared to the symphonic one?
I’m going to revisit my whole discography. I’ll sing a new song or two; I’ll do a cover I’m itching to try, something unexpected. I’ll invite a friend to sing. We’re preparing the repertoire and what the concert will be.