R & B Soul

R & B Soul

Es una nueva versión de la canción registrada anteriormente bajo el título de Suenan Aquellas Canciones. Hay alguna pequeña modificación de la letra también. Recuerdos de la Isla Blanca Cajas de ritmos… samplers… y Decibelios… Recuerdos de sonidos Soul…Funk y House… Reventando los “uptempo”s… Pasarlo bien es el Plan… Cuando buscábamos un estreno… Ni en ITunes. Ni en Spotify… Ni en Amazon… Íbamos a Delta Discos… Buscando aquella canción… Recordamos aquellas noches de Pachá… Ku… Amnesia… o Space… Los pasacalles en la calle de la Virgen… Los atardeceres en Ses Salines… Estamos todos flotando en la Dancefloor… El bombo nos marca el ritmo… Atrás no se queda el bajo… Suena en la pista de baile el four-on-the-floor. Todos veníamos a la Isla… Todos juntos bailando en cualquier lugar… Solo había un destino… Bailar hasta el amanecer… Cuando éramos más jóvenes… Cuando descubrimos la Isla… Descubrimos el Paraíso… El Edén del Amor… Nos acercamos a Ibiza… Vemos desde el aire Es Vedrá y San Josep… Sobrevolamos Playa d'en Bossa… Más arriba está Es Caná… Estamos todos flotando en la Dancefloor… El bombo nos marca el ritmo… Atrás no se queda el bajo… Suena en la pista de baile el four-on-the-floor. Los carteles inmensos… Nos avisan de las fiestas… Los Flyers inundan la Isla… En las playas suena la música… Pasacalles en Dalt Vila… Nos recuerdan nuestras citas… La noche llegará… Y estaremos dispuestos ya… El plan es apretado… Solo venimos para tres días… Y como niños grandes… Todo queremos hacerlo… Cajas de ritmos… samplers… y Decibelios… Recuerdos de sonidos Soul… Funk y House… Reventando los “uptempo”s… El Plan es pasarlo bien … Cuando buscábamos un estreno… Ni en ITunes. Ni en Spotify… Ni en Amazon… Íbamos a Delta Discos… A buscar aquella canción…

R & B Soul

R & B Soul Arabic

R & B Soul

R& B Soul

R & B Soul

R & B Soul

R & B soul

R & B Soul

R & B Soul

R & B Soul

house and soul

Himno de los Premios Evoluciona

Nothing represents the lightness of being as well as music. If you focus on ‘now’ while listening to music, you only hear one or a few notes, disconnected from the rest. Disconnected from everything else, except for the other sensations experienced during that very second. Music comes and goes, it cannot stop. It only makes sense connected to the previous note and preceding the following note, as a stream of connected sounds. It is a flow, as ephemeral as anything can be. A note is born as a fr

Called by another life, the life in which we were… us. It knocks at our door, timidly, almost hopelessly. In the vain expectation that we might remember who we were. Almost as if it were reluctant to burst our bubble, knowing how much it would hurt. It sees us from the other side. Loving us, pitying us a little. But above all, craving for an impossible reunion over time and space. It looks at us with such intensity. And something within us almost remembers… Almost. There is a fibre inside that

And when I will get there, will I still be me, always me? Carrying the cross, the burden, the occasional light… is it me? If we always carry ourselves with us, why do we like travelling so much? We like the change of scenery, the change of reality. Even if the inner reality remains the same, I guess an outer change is refreshing for a while. Then we get used to our new surrounding and we need to change again. Are we moving forward, in circles, or just trying to avoid ourselves as if our own tai

I love routine because it makes me feel safe. Life should be in order, so that I can predict what is going to happen at any time. Yet, an admonitory voice inside warned me: “Stop presuming you know what life should be like, just not to be in fear.” Fear of the unknown, I guessed. My memory conditions everything I see. My brain filters and classifies the incoming data in order to make a prediction. This reduces uncertainty and fear. I wonder what I would be capable of seeing, experiencing, if I

(Continues from here) The narrator sits and stares into the darkness. The characters have stopped moving. He picks them up and looks at them as he holds them in his hand. He puts them back on the floor. They looked so alive… more alive than he himself. And yet, here he is. Alive. Sitting. He knows there is nowhere to go. What difference would it make? A brief change of scenery, a new creation and then back, sitting here again, gazing at nothingness. But nothingness is not nothing; it is somet