It is difficult to find any reproach to Rosendo Mercado, a consistent man who for four decades has never given up being himself. So much is his honesty that now seems to say goodbye when no one would afflict him, not even far, to prolong his adventures on stage. But no; last night at the WiZink Center in Madrid was, if nobody persuaded him otherwise, the last time he met with the public of his city (although the carabancheleros, in the context of the great metropolitan city, represent almost a republic of their own) . And now, as soon as he resolves his two consecutive appearances in Barcelona, goodbye very good.
Rosendo adds 64 years and, surely, a few more mysteries. He is a tenacious, reiterative musician, subject to the songs of three chords and to the very demanding trio format, which as a singer and guitarist forces him to wear overwhelmingly. Hates posturing, concession, flattery. He is not very graceful, narigudo, with graying hair, cowboys exceeded in kilometers and basic black t-shirt. It does not grant parliaments, beyond some circumstantial "thank you very much". He has three quarters of the stage (or more), because he does not walk or gesture or is interested in a pepper in the gallery. But his people adore him.
He dislikes the interviews, because as a result of them people stopped him on the street, but the rosendista does not see in it a flash of detachment, but of integrity. The 15,000 entries of the pavilion were volatilized two months ago, which betrays its little chrematistic desire: it would have burst a second date tomorrow, just as today it would bathe in gold if at some point it had compromised with a reunification tour of Leño.
But no. Rosendo is our Bradomín of urban rock, an ugly one who tries to hide his condition of sentimental (and of which we do not know if he is very or little catholic). Some minimal smile betrays him: last night was a happy shy. But he did not give a damn song from his legendary Leño to El tren, at the hour and quarter of the concert. And only then did he take advantage of the warm environment to deliver loose pants, singular male, fig bread or sailing, but part of the previous repertoire (when) was perfectly unknown to ordinary mortals.
Rosendo, as I said, is loved so much that everything is forgiven. Even his desertion from Carabanchel to take refuge in the burgher village of his wife, Esther, with whom he maintains a longevity and little archetypal relationship of 41 years. "I do not know, I do not like to talk, we'll see each other again, even if it's in another life," he babbled, as elusive as ever, before the encores. The aroma of enriched cigar grew, in a goal by the squad to the anti-smoking law, when that of Promethe being grateful became the leitmotif of the night. And the audience was more aware of the legend than of the circumstance, so Mercado strove to become the involuntary hero in his penultimate act of service.
"It hurts me to have to stop, but life is this," he summarized before attacking his classic among the classics, Ways to Live. We will see if now he assumes those of ascetic. In case you miss the asphalt, dozens of pavilions will provide shelter. Insurance. And there will not be What disillusion worth.