Rockers, modernity and juice for Scarlett Johansson: underground stories from the stroller room | babelia

I remember a boring Saturday afternoon, maybe in the fall, when my friend and I were walking down the Ramblas looking for some fun. We caught a bottle of Segov whiskey in one of those old grocery stores that are now souvenirs, and we began to drink it from the nose, leaning on a bench in the Royal Square. We had our first drinks when they came…

I remember a boring Saturday afternoon, maybe in the fall, when my friend and I were walking down the Ramblas looking for some fun. We caught a bottle of Segov whiskey in one of those old grocery stores that are now souvenirs, and we began to drink it from the nose, leaning on a bench in the Royal Square. We were having our first drinks when Nazario and Okana approached us, dressed as flamenco dancers. They crossed the square in heavy make-up and must have taken an interest in these middle-class twentysomethings who naively played tricks with a high-quality bottle. They drank a little, joked about the violators and continued their walk.

It was Barcelona in the late seventies. The one frequented by Roberto Tiers (Córdoba, Argentina, 1958), son and grandson of Republican exiles, illustrious resident of Ciutat Velha, since in November 1982 he founded the longtime music bar Sidecar with friends. Certainly inspired by third parties, Tierz combines four decades of experience and 6,000 concerts in one This is not a Sidecar book. The title does not deceive, it is a brief memoir, a shifting anecdotal account of how he ran the place in whose basement several generations of Barcelona lived nights of madness, hedonism, friendship and music. A club that wanted to be a factory for artistic alternatives, a refuge from the unofficial culture.

“Once you get to the sidecar, you never want to leave,” Carlos Zanon says in the prologue, which appears to be written on a drunken coaster.

“Once you get to the sidecar, you never want to leave,” says Carlos Zanon in the prologue, which seems to be written about the drunken coaster, admitting that he cherishes every time he descends those stairs. but hardly remembers how he left at dawn. I also cannot list how many times I went down into that dark cellar, on the stage of which, in the background, so many musical sensations were experienced. I associate Sidecar with a family space, without unsympathetic muscles at the door and brawls inside. The good nature of Roberto, a musician before becoming a manager, had a lot to do with it.

Tiertz played in bands. He met Carlos Segarra and formed the Rebeldes bud, a possible future that thwarted military service. Upon his return, he goes through various jobs – a picker at home, a peddler of advertisements – and understands that he must start from scratch, look for life. In an old bar in Raval that miraculously still exists, together with three colleagues with big dreams and zero resources, they decide to open a bar. They have experienced a study trip to Paris, Brussels and Amsterdam and strive to be modern in the face of the decadent scene of Laietana Zeleste and its singer-songwriters, virtuoso jazz-rock and salsa orchestras.

A frequenter of a square surrounded by alleyways and crowded with gambling establishments, when the US Sixth Fleet released its sailors to the foot of the Rambla, Tierz frequented the places where records from London were played, and breathed an atmosphere of eclectic modernity. The Eighties were born and bands were springing up in the city who needed places like this multi-purpose basement with entrance to Rue Heures, which would soon host comic book exhibitions, movie screenings, music video festivals and trips to France to see Bowie or Springsteen. The success that had surprised them from day one grew.

“We found that there are people who were absent seven days a week, seven hours a day or more,” the author writes. “Oh, what times!”

“We found that there were people who were out seven days a week, seven hours a day or more,” writes Tiertz. “Oh, what times! Many turned Sidecar into a kind of social club that they visited on a daily basis. The mixture was absolute and the coexistence was almost always good. Modern with cloaks and intellectual aspirations, rockers The Harley and the wig, the badge punks, the impeccable fashionistas in the parks, and of course the students, the office workers, the neighborhood people, the El Chino delinquents who always respected the bar, the people from the top…brought the good vibes.” Such civilized socialization came to an abrupt end on the night of 1985, when a police raid was carried out in the spirit of exemplary cleanliness. And then came the closure: seven months of paperwork and disappointment.

The carriage reopened and was again filled with the most varied urban fauna; there was an expansion and reform, obtaining space at street level, with access to the square, where it was possible to distance oneself from underground noise. He survived the Olympic euphoria and suffered from the heroin plague; he invented crowded “girls only” nights, welcomed the experimental music of Club G’s, joined the trend of psychotronic cinema. And Roberto teamed up with Kim Blanco, the club’s late programmer, in a staffing agency. He was not the only loser of this entrepreneur, who was always erasing false steps with new ideas. On the seventh anniversary, his loyal clientele filled the square to see three local bands led by BB sin Sed.

Turned into a club over time indie, the already historic bar enjoyed those nights that make up for misfortune. They reunited the New York Dolls on their small stage and rescued Mike Kennedy, the Los Bravos singer. They were attended by celebrity guests: secret concerts by Barcelona’s adoptive Manu Chao and British polydrug addict Pete Doherty, performances by Scarlett Johansson who drank juice, and Elijah Wood, Frodo from Lord of the Rings, DJ for one night. Mayors and representatives of the city council also wanted to go down to the Sidecar basement, from which they were dizzy with repeated checks.

These are the incomplete memoirs of a cultural figure, saved by his fine prose and lack of vanity.

Published by a small vocation publishing house pulp —biographies and essays on rock, thrillers, and Western novels—, This is not a Sidecar book It would have had more content focused on choral evidence, edited with greater literary ambition. These are the incomplete memoirs of a cultural figure, saved by his fine prose and lack of vanity. Someone who, oddly enough, doesn’t berate his former associates was the president of the Plaza Reial Merchants Association and to whom Ada Colau presented the city’s Medal of Honor.

“Not wanting to be ungrateful, I believe it is our duty to distance ourselves from the circles of power, remain independent, and always be on the side of opinions that question the system,” concludes Tierz, without losing his usual composure. “That was our original idea, and while times change, we don’t.” It’s an unwritten law rock’n’roll, Friend.

“This is not a wheelchair book”. Roberto Tierz. Foreword by Carlos Zanon. 66 rpm editions, 2023. 188 pages. 20 euros.

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