"I am your number one fan. Hearing you sing gives me life"

A song by Charles Aznavour plays, in a karaoke version, and a dozen passers-by stop at a corner of Gaudí Avenue, in Barcelona, to observe a scene of strange magnetism. Joan Quintanilla, 82 years old, lanky and with a soft voice, performs the song with a perfect balance between emotion and serenity, with measured gestures and reciting each verse in impeccable French and with the classic elegance of singers from other eras. A few steps away, absorbed and with a lost gaze, Conxi Ventura, 75 years old, dances alone to the rhythm of the music. When the song ends – her favorite, she says, from a repertoire she knows by heart – Conxi is the first to applaud. “I am her number one fan,” she proclaims.

It's been three years since Conxi first saw Joan performing on the street. They were difficult times: her ex-husband had just died, she had survived a severe anemia, and meeting Joan was like a revelation. “Hearing him sing gives me life,” she says, and gives a ear-to-ear smile. Since then, every weekend, Conxi accompanies Joan wherever he performs. “I didn’t know Barcelona that well, but thanks to him I’ve traveled all over it!”

For Joan, Conxi's gratitude – and that of many other people – has been a “pleasant surprise” from singing on the street. He started doing it after retiring and selling the Sagrera pharmacy where he worked for 30 years. Although music was always his passion, his family made him see that it wasn't the best option to earn a living. He shrugs, pragmatic, and says: “Now I dedicate myself to singing, which is what I like most”.

Joan's equipment is simple, but effective: a speaker he transports in a cart with wheels, a microphone, and a small device he wears hanging like a pendant and uses to change songs. His repertoire is vast: from boleros, salsa, and tango to Elvis, the Beatles, and Serrat. In short, timeless classics that appeal to nostalgia. “You touch a nerve and make people a little happier,” he explains, whether singing in Catalan, Spanish, English, or French. “Music is a universal language. Many people don't understand the lyrics, but the music, for whatever reason, gives them goosebumps”. 

Between songs, numerous passers-by approach to congratulate Joan, shake his hand, and give him some coins (and even some bills). The owner of the bar next door, enthusiastic, wants to ask the City Council to set up a permanent spot where Joan can sing whenever he wants. But he warns that it's not that simple: there are over a hundred licensed musicians (he has number 99). Since many neighborhoods don't have official spots, he's gotten used to finding improvised places to perform. Unfortunately, he feels that musicians like him are often not taken into sufficient account, and he assures: “Street music is also culture”.

It's half past one. Joan sings the last song and starts packing up: his wife is waiting for him for lunch. Conxi helps him collect the tips. It hasn't been a bad day, he explains. As always, they will return together by metro, each to their own home: he, to Sant Andreu; she, to Santa Coloma de Gramenet. I ask Conxi where they're supposed to go next week, but she shakes her head. Resigned, she says that Joan is going on vacation to France and she will be without seeing him for almost a month. Patience will be needed. In the meantime, luckily, she has her record player. She adds: “The day this man stops singing, I don't know what I'll do”.