Roger Mas did not need any consecration. This re-consecrated Solsona native illuminated the Palau as the occasion deserved, in formal and gala attire but also in a festive mood, especially with that iridescent blue jacket with which the singer has changed his profile picture as if announcing the Meravella orchestra in the main square. After a 13-year tour (as he pointed out to us, indeed, year 2012 with the same copla) he has clearly deepened mutual understanding, along with an impeccable and passionate drummer (Josep Pinyu), a multifaceted Xavier Guitó (piano and vocals and cymbals), an elegant double bass and electric bass foundation (Arcadi Marcet) and his own guitar. Already at the beginning, with the piccolo of Massardana detonating the sardanistic intro with a blue slide towards jazz, we were signaled a night with hundreds of rabbits inside the top hat where we would again be reminded, as Gaudí noted, that the original consists of returning to the origin.
Mas's pose is approachable, like a companion at the bar, with an everyday and almost listless tone that in truth only tries to modulate passion. He must be tired of being called a crooner, but it is the price of versatility, which makes him go from Italian song (La canzone dell'amore perduto) to traditional Balkan, Aranese (Aqueres montanhes), passing through his own authorship (I la pluja es va assecar, L'home i l'elefant, Si tu m'ho dius, Michela, Lo comte Arnau, Sota una fina capa de cendra, Si el mar tingués baranes) and a first climax of the night with Llorona, which more than traditional Mexican is universally (and literally) defined as a ghost or a specter of Mexican folklore, and which in Roger's hands takes on a poetic force that also seems to touch the beyond.
That the audience later also recognized La bien pagá is normal and expected, and presented by the singer-songwriter as a communion between "cobla" and copla, in a new display of synaptic capacity or directly of genius. The copla, in effect, makes the diverse musical styles of the evening resonate with plaza sun and with a cry of life underlined by the protagonist's very blue espadrilles, which seemed to want to make his iridescent ensemble jump around in the middle of the stage at all times.
The Ode to Francesc Pujols comes after his well-known recital of the General Concept of Catalan Science, which, as everyone knows or should know, refers to an autochthonous, subtle, and almost involuntary morality (or religion), which would associate Catalan identity with truth, no longer as a permanent search, which it also is, but as a confirmation: it has nothing to do with realism, not only, or with reason (not only), nor with victory (God forbid), but with truth.
Truth is something very different that would incorporate the attitude today called authentic; to be authentic, to be real and to proclaim that our simple existence as a people is a truth as big as a temple. That, I believe, is quite a lot of what Roger Mas's music is about: someone who does not seek to expose the truth does not have the Cobla de Sant Jordi-Ciutat de Barcelona accompany him to highlight it, in the foreground or as accompaniment, around music and styles from all over the world. And with his own voice. With character.
So much character that Roger, as I said, a re-consecrated Solsonès, will not neutralize the last vowel of veure not even to make it rhyme with misèria when he sings with Marina Rossell (the surprise guest of the night) the Quebecois Quand les hommes vivront d'amour (Quan tothom viurà d'amor), already covered by the singer from Castellet i la Gornal in 1985.
One would say that the hearts in the stalls are already standing when the repertoire is hammered home with the mariadelmarbonetense L'aigle noir (L'àguila negra), in this case covered by the Mallorcan singer in 1971 from Barbara Brodi's song. End of concert with El dolor de la bellesa, almost an anthem with a ritornello already made popular culture (and with the audience's hand clapping in the three sardanistic throws).
The rest are the encores to tie it up, deservedly, please, and we go from Fred Buscaglione's Guarda che luna to an apotheotic Santa Espina that the audience also accompanies with both three-throws and shouts of independence at the end. And the moon and the sun sing, and Roger sings that he will sing, even with a Canta Maria that tells us, come on, let's head home, that it was nothing and all this will also pass. And no, Roger. There are things that do not pass us by.