Free live music and stuff in Las Palmas, August 2025

This is what we’ve seen this, pretty much dead, month.

• 9 August: Poesía Cantada con Dácil Santana @ Biblioteca Pública Municipal Josefina de la Torre, Paseo de las Canteras, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria
  Dácil Santana (voice, guitar) with special guests, poets Adán Nada and Soledad Salim, the author of Guerra de almohadas.

  

• 23 August: Bravas, brindis y letras @ Biblioteca Pública Municipal Josefina de la Torre
  Colloquium with actress Carol Cabrera, film director Arima León and winemakers Trinidad Fumero and Josefina Rojas, polished with a glass of white Canarian wine.

  

• 29 August: Eugenia Cabrera @ Casa de Colón, Calle Colón, 1
  Canarian cantautora Eugenia Cabrera (voice, percussion) accompanied by Pachi Cabrera (guitar).

  

And an exhibition, or rather four exhibitions:

• 12 June — 31 August: «Millares Sall. Creación plástica»
  A retrospective of the artistic output of the Millares Sall family, in four locations:
  • Tribute to Sixto Millares Sall @ Centro Atlántico de Arte Moderno (CAAM), Calle de los Balcones, 9
  • Manolo Millares @ CAAM — San Antonio Abad, Plaza San Antonio Abad
  • María del Carmen “Jane” Millares: Centro de Artes Plásticas, Calle Colón, 8
  • Eduardo “Cho-Juaá” Millares @ Fundación Mapfre Canarias, Calle Castillo, 6

  

Looking forward to September.

The Unconsoled

by Kazuo Ishiguro

This is the third and so far the most difficult novel of Ishiguro I read. It took me about six weeks to finish it.

If comic episodes and repetitive dialogues of A Pale View of Hills are charming, here they take most of the space — and become tiresome. Was it really necessary to include everything the most mediocre characters say? Ishiguro himself provides great examples of how to deal with that: “For a while he went on uttering such empty phrases” or “continued in this vein for a while longer, but I had stopped listening”. The book ended just as I started to enjoy it. Bother.

The Unconsoled was published 30 years ago and, according to Wikipedia, was not received very well at the time. Now it is considered to be a masterpiece. I hope to re-read it a few years from now, perhaps even at a slower pace.

As I started to read the book during the Women’s Euro 2025, which I followed closely, the story of Number Nine — a favourite toy football player of Boris, the protagonist’s stepson — resonated with me.

‘Number Nine’ belonged to Boris’s very favourite team, and was by far the most gifted of the players. However, for all his immense skill, Number Nine was a highly moody personality. His position in the team was somewhere in midfield, but often, for long stretches of a match, he would sulk in some obscure part of the pitch, apparently oblivious of the fact that his team was losing badly. Sometimes, Number Nine would continue in this lethargic manner for over an hour, so that his team would go four, five, six goals down, and the commentator — for indeed there was a commentator — would say in a mystified voice: ‘Number Nine so far just hasn’t found his form. I don’t quite know what’s wrong.’ Then, perhaps with twenty minutes remaining, Number Nine would finally give a glimpse of his true ability, pulling back a goal for his side with some fine piece of skill. ‘That’s more like it!’ the commentator would exclaim. ‘At last, Number Nine shows what he can do!’ From that moment on, Number Nine’s form would grow steadily stronger, until before long he would be scoring one goal after another, and the opposing team would be concentrating entirely on preventing at virtually any cost Number Nine receiving the ball. But sooner or later he would, and then, no matter how many opponents stood between him and the goalmouth, he would manage to find a way through to score. Soon the inevitability of the outcome once he had received the ball was such that the commentator would say: ‘It’s a goal,’ in tones of resigned admiration, not when the ball actually went into the net, but at the moment Number Nine first gained possession — even if this occurred deep within his own half.

Incidentally, Spain’s own Number Nine, Esther González, with four goals, won the Top Scorer award of the tournament.

The Nurse’s Song / Песня няни президента США

by Roald Dahl
translated by Mark Freidkin

This poem appears in Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, which I read last time some 20 years ago. I completely forgot about the POTUS and his nanny appearing there until I, quite by chance, came across the page of wonderful Roald Dahl translations by Mark Freidkin — yes, the very same translator of «Книга бессмыслиц». Enjoy!

Roald Dahl The Nurse’s Song

Роальд Даль, перевод Марка Фрейдкина Песня няни президента США

This mighty man of whom I sing, The greatest of them all, Was once a teeny little thing, Just eighteen inches tall. I knew him as a tiny tot, I nursed him on my knee. I used to sit him on the pot And wait for him to wee. I always washed between his toes, And cut his little nails. I brushed his hair and wiped his nose And weighed him on the scales. Through happy childhood days he strayed, As all nice children should. I smacked him when he disobeyed, And stopped when he was good. It soon began to dawn on me He wasn’t very bright, Because when he was twenty-three He couldn’t read or write. “What shall we do?” his parents sob. “The boy has got the vapors! He couldn’t even get a job Delivering the papers!” “Ah-ha,” I said, “this little clot Could be a politician.” “Nanny,” he cried, “Oh Nanny, what A super proposition!” “Okay,” I said, “let’s learn and note The art of politics. Let’s teach you how to miss the boat And how to drop some bricks, And how to win the people’s vote And lots of other tricks. Let’s learn to make a speech a day Upon the TV screen, In which you never never say Exactly what you mean. And most important, by the way, Is not to let your teeth decay, And keep your fingers clean.” And now that I am eighty nine, It’s too late to repent. The fault was mine the little swine Became the President.

Великой нации отец, Что всем нам так знаком, Когда-то был совсем малец, Под стол ходил пешком. Он был малявка, просто тля. Его (коль он хотел) Я на горшок сажала для Больших и малых дел. Его купала я не раз, Чтоб мальчик лучше рос, И утирала что ни час Его сопливый нос. И чтобы детство день за днём Безоблачней текло, Ему всыпала я ремнём По первое число. Ведь был он (стоит ли скрывать?) Не вундеркинд — о нет! И сколько будет пятью пять, Узнал лишь в двадцать лет. «Как парень дальше будет жить? — Все недоумевали. — Ведь и газеты разносить Возьмут его едва ли!» Но я сказала: «Не беда, Что мальчик прост немного. Таким в политике всегда Открытая дорога!» Он знает, как попасть впросак Расчётливо и метко, И наломать дрова мастак, Каких увидишь редко, И элегантен, как верстак, И туп, как табуретка. Он может чушь пороть подряд И два, и три часа, Что очень важно, говорят, В борьбе за голоса. Плюс строгий галстук, честный взгляд, Зубов здоровых ровный ряд — Они в день выборов творят Большие чудеса. И в результате тех чудес (А здесь лишь я виною) Через Конгресс пролез балбес Руководить страною.

To put both poems into historical context: Dahl’s novel was published in 1972. The book «Детские бестселлеры» contaning its Russian translation appeared in 2001. Of course, Dahl and Freidkin were thinking of different presidents. Which president do you think of?

Encanto

a film by Jared Bush and Byron Howard

At the long last, I watched Encanto (in Spanish), thanks to the open-air cinema cycle Vamos de cine organised by LPA Cultura. I have to say that I didn’t enjoy the first 10—15 minutes at all and was even considering going home. The viewers, that is, little kids and their parents, were producing so much noise that sometimes I couldn’t hear the dialogue. I’m glad I stayed.

OK, the “happy” ending was a bit of a let-down. I was hoping for a magic-less alternative, which was already taking shape. But all in all, I liked this film. I would like it even better if not for songs. Most of them are forgettable (I forgot them already) and don’t add much to the story. A few are irritating, none more so than Colombia, Mi Encanto yodelled by Carlos Vives. I’d say, scrap them all — with a singular exception of No se habla de Bruno (We Don’t Talk About Bruno) which is a masterpiece. I think that the Spanish version is superior to the (already pretty damn good) English original.