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For my generation, Fito Páez is almost a late god, not an unpolluted god, but a much more disconcerting one, that we listened to as if the earth split under our feet and a grumbling, transhumant voice with cigar and alcohol scent said that, yes, that even under the current state of affairs «not everything was lost».
Rather affective than epochal, and drifting between the end of the century and the beginning of the new millennium, my generation trusted Fito Páez and his southern and “decapitated” breath, where folklore and Latin American song -Mercedes Sosa, Víctor Jara, Violeta Parra, etc.- from which he drew on as a member of the so-called trova rosarina, were mixed with the rock sounds of the piano and the electric guitar that we found in other important Argentine musicians.
Now that Fito closes the International Film Festival of Gibara, I remember how we used to pass his records from one friend to the other, as if we were handing something precious, and also chanted in improvised meetings of friends, where his music was the perfect soundtrack: those themes that now he sang for us again on the stage.