Rap del optimista [English translation]

It was one of those groups

that you see in a pub for a hundred bucks;

coke, beer and sex,

starch mohawks, drinks with cloves.

They were four blokes

of a trouble making intensity

screaming to the world:

"Now our time has come!"

And they played rock and roll,

a bit immature but rock and roll,

a bit dark but rock and roll,

very hard but rock and roll,

if there's no future, long live rock and roll!

Until the summer came

and they were presented to an announcer

who had an arranger friend

who was neighbour of a producer

married to a keyboard player

who was very vanguardist and lover

of an elegant manager

who has a partner with lots of taste

to make business with singers.

And the Visa arrived, with their blackmails,

and began the hurry for the trips

and the laughter was over.

They don't go to the pubs,

they mount their parties privately,

they know to adapt

to the demands of the market;

they did six concerts

with the Duke in the local elections

they came thirds

in the top I-don't-know-how-many.

Now they play plain pop

deliberate but plain pop

a bit boring but plain pop

manufactured but plain pop

Against the past: Long live pop!

Since the summer came

and they were presented to an adviser

of image who was relation

with the neice of a promoter

brother in law of certain designer

who was the wife of a columnist

of that prestigious magazine

for its talent for the stuff

of launching artists.

Now they're yuppies -pictures in tabloids-

they swear for Snoopy, that this rocks,

they nevermind the groupies.

Today they play the optimistic rap

instead of the necessity blues,

even in the dentist waiting room

they sound as background music.

They got with the Portugal vote

in 13th place in Eurovision,

those who swore to eat up life

life ended eating them.

And though their blue suede shoes

have stepped on more than one turd

now they wear Lottuse shoes over the carpets

and they treat Javier Solana informally.

Nobody feel offended,

the morals make me puke

I meant to make a funny story,

with no relation to reality.

May certain critic over there

get lame of the three legs

if I lie when I say I never

ask for advices and I never gave them.

Unless that guy in the mirror

who teases me a lot,

sometimes he gives me the finger and says

"nobody can stand you, man"

After all the only thing happening

is that I needed to write (to eat)

a song to finish once and

for all this longplay.

I'd just love, instead of this reggae,

to have written Rhapsody in blue

Chelsea hotel1, Guantanamera,

Tatuaje 2, or She Loves you (yé, yé, yé).

Pedro Navaja3, Like a rolling stone,

Dos gardenias para ti,4

Mira que eres canalla 5, No hago

otra cosa que pensar en ti, 6

Marieta 7, La estatua del jardín botánico 8,

Moon over Bourbon street.9

What's my fault if the furthest I got

is to Pongamos que hablo de…10

Pongamos que hablo de…

Pongamos que hablo de… maní

si te quieres con tu novia divertir…11

1. Leonard Cohen song2. Concha Piquer song3. Ruben Blades song4. Famous bolero5. Luis Eduardo Aute song6. Joan Manuel Serrat song7. George Brassens song8. Radio Futura song9. Sting song10. Pongamos que hablo de madrid, Joaquin Sabina song11. An excerpt of El manicero

• Artist:Joaquin Sabina
• Album:El hombre del traje gris