El festival de la trova había empezado entre claro oscuros, los cortes de electricidad intermitentes amenazaban con dejarnos sin luz, tanto literal como metafóricamente. Pero la poesía suele darse a luz incluso entre sombras y ese día nos habían invitado a leer. El ambiente era un torbellino de música, café, bombillas a media vida, alcohol y mesas de madera, era el escenario perfecto para que se diera lo bohemio.
Aunque al principio parecía ser una noche de poetas para trovadores y viceversa, solo nosotros haciéndonos de público como solía ser habitual, la gente por alguna razón encontró la ruta hacia nosotros y decidieron hacer nido. Los trinos no se hicieron esperar, la trova era algo vibrante, qué despegaba a la gente de sus asientos y obligaba a pensar, o a dejar de hacerlo, poca música tiene esa sensación extracorpórea. Debíamos responder a la altura.
El primer verso siempre es crucial cuando se lee o golpea el rostro o condena a la letanía… Los cuervos reunidos para escucharnos esperaban sumergirse en la letanía de las letras, nosotros los golpeamos y aunque algunos volaron al instante otro tomaron su lugar en el alambre. Estábamos haciendo lo insólito para aquel lugar, para aquella trova, en aquella poesía. Los versos ya fueran acompañados a guitarra o no, lo estaban envolviendo todo. Y cuando más álgida estaba la danza entre poemas, cuervos, cantos, hizo clic el broche de oro.
El trovador qué había inspirado a toda mi generación llego guitarra a la espalda. Como la leyenda que lo antecedía guio al técnico de audio y sin mucha presentación comenzó a tocar. La nostalgia se trepó en el aire, aquella voz que jamás habíamos palpado en vivo nos transportaba 10 años atrás. Los cuervos granábamos a su ritmo en el alambre, sabiéndonos arrojados a un tiempo diferente. Entre canción y canción alguno de nosotros volaba al escenario para presumir sus negrísimas alas resultado de los muchos traumas qué se dejaban descifrar solo a modo de poesía. Por cada afinación o cuerda rota uno más se sumaba A tal punto que no se distinguía si se trataba de cuervos o pavo reales acompañando a Adrián. Cuya humildad fue tanta qué para el final de la noche no quedaban cuervos en el alambre, todos subidos al escenario chillaban juntos, trasformando lo que sería otra noche de trova y poesía, en La Noche de “Los Cuervos de Adrián".
The troubadour festival had begun amidst light and shadow, intermittent power outages threatening to leave us in darkness, both literally and metaphorically. But poetry tends to come to light even in shadows, and that day we had been invited to read. The atmosphere was a whirlwind of music, coffee, half-dead light bulbs, alcohol, and wooden tables, the perfect stage for bohemianism to flourish.
Although at first it seemed to be a night for poets and troubadours, with us, the audience as usual, the people for some reason found their way to us and decided to nest. The trills were not long in coming, the troubadour music was vibrant, lifting people from their seats and compelling them to think, or to stop thinking; few types of music evoke that otherworldly feeling. We had to respond accordingly.
The first verse is always crucial when reading: it can either strike your face or condemn you to monotony… The crows gathered to listen to us were expecting to be immersed in the litany of words, but we surprised them, and although some flew away instantly, others took their place on the wire. We were doing the unexpected for that place, for that troubadour tradition, in that poetry. The verses, whether accompanied by guitar or not, were enveloping everything. And just as the dance between poems, crows, and songs reached its peak, the finishing touch was added.
The troubadour who had inspired my entire generation arrived with a guitar on his back. Like the legend that preceded him, he directed the sound technician and, without much introduction, began to play. Nostalgia filled the air, that voice we had never experienced live transported us back 10 years. The crows kept in rhythm on the wire, knowing we were being thrown into a different time. Between songs, some of us flew to the stage to show off their pitch-black wings, a result of the many traumas that were decipherable only in the form of poetry. With each tuning or broken string, more would join. To the point that it was impossible to distinguish whether it was crows or peacocks accompanying Adrián. Whose humility was so great that by the end of the night, there were no crows left on the wire; all had flown up to the stage, squawking together, transforming what would have been another night of troubadour music and poetry into "The Night of Adrián’s Crows".
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