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Forty years after the move in Madrid, the phenomenon has returned. Four decades have passed since the kingdom’s capital became a performance of inhibited desires and obscene fantasies, in the heat of love in a bar. It was in the tender eighties when I set foot in Madrid for the first time, those years when Marisol stopped being Marisol and the uncover had a Slavic name, Nadiuska. The bizarre humor of Ozores and the obscenities of Pajares and Esteso, with women in high panties and careers in stockings, left “Last Tango in Paris” as a tasteless parody. The cult yielded to the counterculture, at the same time that Franco was already only a wet memory in any liberal disco or in any hotel for hours. Now, with the distance, I think that It was not a moral revolution but a continuous session romp where each with each one transferred their obsessions and their fantasies.

La movida is the late music of the Transition that today we adults hardly remember

They were years of crystal balls that replaced the crystals of the Florida balls in the Retiro, the same place where the puppies of the Spanish right now go to hold the elections, whether they win or lose, because their thing is to celebrate. Because it is possible that the move did not exist, which is like that quarter-and-a-half bride that you don’t even remember was, but that you retain the sweet melancholy of what happened. Or not. La movida is the late music of the Transition that today we adults hardly remember, the only ones who traveled with Aviador Dro, in a country that had been declared Total Sinister between The Secrets and the Permanent Paralysis of a Kaka de Luxe that was part of the past.

Because the electoral campaign had its soundtrack of the moved eighties

Madrid now moves between cockles and taverns. And look, I like natural cockles with a touch of vinegar. Because the electoral campaign had its soundtrack of the moved eighties. Iglesias sang “I’m going to Usera” by Almodóvar and Mcnamara, but there no one remembered him anymore. Bal, like Loquillo, hummed Because I have a rock’n’roll band, but the band had no drums. Monastery, with the fire of Burning, posed to the rhythm of “What is a girl like you doing in a place like this?”, In the middle of a radio debate. Gabilondo scored a “Neither you nor anyone” from Alaska and the Pegamoids, because that was not won by neither Tierno Galván revived. It was good for Mónica García to keep the beat of “El empio contrataca” by Los Nikis, in the Núñez de Balboa version. And Ayuso, queen of Glam, got tired of singing, between communism and freedom, that chorus by Olvido Gara: “My destiny is the one I decide / the one I choose for myself.” The truth is that it is very late when I write this piece, and that when I wake up, like Mecano, I won’t be able to get up. And if I do, wait for the egg shampoo.

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