Oriol Rosell: "Why does your son like reggaeton?"

Oriol Rosell (Barcelona, 1972), critic and cultural promoter, was talking with an editor about the possibility of writing a book. They were talking about music, and at one point, the editor said to him: "You know what's wrong with me? I can't understand why my children like reggaeton." And Oriol replied: "And shouldn't this be the book?" It was from that conversation that the book was born. Killing Daddy: Why You Don't Like Reggaeton (And Your Kids Do) (Libros Cúpula).

Why 'Kill the Daddy'?

— One of the conflicts that reggaeton raises is precisely the trauma of the generational divide. I wanted to understand why the generational divide is so traumatic.

Why irreconcilable?

— Our parents come from a pre-internet era. From a world in which the Soviet Union existed, in other words, in which it was possible to imagine something politically different. Our children were born into turbo-capitalism, where nothing can be conceived beyond what exists. And popular music must be able to resonate with those yearnings and desires of young people.

You mentioned rock. What did rock represent, and what does reggaeton represent?

— Rock 'n' roll, in a way, is the moment when youth becomes aware of being youth. After World War II, there was a development of capital, of mass culture, and this gave rise to a group that was neither children nor adults. Here, the imaginary of youth culture was invented, which exploded in the 1960s when they said: Why can't we participate in shaping reality? And that's when the rise of the counterculture and the idea of killing one's father took place.

And reggaeton?

— It's the end of the 20th century in pop culture. We realize that the promise of the counterculture has been liquidated. Finished. A very clear example can be found in symbols.

What does it mean?

— Twentieth-century subcultures—heavy metal, punk, goth—took pre-existing devices, like leather jackets, and turned them into symbols of rejection and self-imposed exile. But in urban subcultures, like reggaeton or trap, the symbols are the same inside and outside the subculture.

I mean?

— Louis Vuitton, Gucci... No other form of power is envisaged. Symbols of luxury are the only ones that are taken into account, and they are the same inside and out.

That's why it's hard for parents to understand, isn't it? You might think, "I raised them in a culture of hard work and feminism, and they end up hearing this."

— We also need to have some confidence in young people. I mean, if we think we've given them a feminist, anti-capitalist, whatever education, do we really think a song will change them?

But why do they like it?

— Among other things, because being young also entails a desire for transgression. And popular music has always been sexist; it's born within very clear heteropatriarchal structures. What happens is that until now there's been a patina of poetry, of metaphor. And now there isn't, but we live in very explicit times. Just look at how people talk to you on social media. There's no filter whatsoever.

And isn't it more sexist than other lyrics?

— It's sexist, clearly, but it reminds me of the phrase "against Franco one fought better"Well, against reggaeton too. It's a better fight than against Sabina, who is also sexist."

We step back. Where does it come from and when is it born?

— We must go back to Jamaica. When slavery was abolished, many Jamaicans left for Panama, where the canal was being built, but they maintained contact with Jamaica, listening to reggae when it came out in the late 1960s, and eventually making reggae in Spanish. This reached the Latino communities in New York, where the Puerto Ricans were, who were participating in the birth of hip-hop and rap. So it ended up mixing with reggae and became a hit in the 1960s. hamlets, the most depressed neighborhoods in Puerto Rico.

Reggaeton is therefore the union of New York hip-hop with Jamaican reggae via Panama.

— Of course, what makes the history of reggaeton fascinating is that it doesn't really originate in a specific place; it originates from circulation. It's a product of migration.

And is it poor?

— Absolutely. In fact, we're not surprised by the economic or material ambitions of hip-hop artists, because we understand that they're African Americans who are coming out of the ghetto and want to get out of it no matter what. And reggaeton is exactly the same, but within a Hispanic American context.

And in 2004 something important happens: that music becomes universal.

— With Gasoline It blows everything up. There had been others before in Spain hits as Daddy coolhowever, Gasoline, Daddy Yankee is a worldwide hit. It's a song that was sung in Japan. And this is a paradigm shift: how could it be that Spanish was the dominant language in the pop world?

This is a change for the industry.

— And in people's mindsets. And it particularly bothers Spain, because I think the rejection of reggaeton stems from a lot of postcolonial resentment. There's always been a hierarchy in which Spain was above Latin America, and they've swiped right in our faces commercially. Spain has no place on the global pop map.

But have these misgivings about reggaeton only occurred in Spain?

— In the United States, they've happened to the African-American community. But not to Latinos, or not with the same intensity.

It is said to be music without a message.

— There's always a romanticizing aspect of the past. As if something that said "She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah" didn't exist. For every Rage Against the Machine and every The Clash, there were 50 Madonnas, no kidding. True, there's no message, but it's a generation that I'd dare say is precociously cynical. They understand that music isn't going to change anything; it's entertainment. And it's interesting if you link it to dance in these cultures.

Dance is a central element.

— And yet, when have you ever seen a white man who wasn't drugged up dancing for the sake of dancing? We're not a dance culture. Instead, our sons and daughters understand music as a dance device, not a pseudo-literary device for listening to Bob Dylan.

He says that the older generation does like Calle 13 because it has a message.

— And it's interesting because they're among the few who weren't born in poor neighborhoods; they come from the educated middle class. And what they do is basically a discourse like Manu Chao's with dembow.

Bad Bunny, in his latest album, says, "How is Bad Bunny going to be the king of pop, like reggaeton and dembow?"

— There's a certain thing about success being the best revenge. But I'm not fascinated by the fact that poor people are stars; we've seen this with soccer. I'm fascinated by the fact that those who aren't poor, the children of the white middle class, identify with the ghetto discourse, and not with the lyrical tradition of pop music.

And why does this happen?

— I think it has to do with a very deep awareness of precariousness. These are kids who feel every day that they're going to live worse than their parents, who are scared stiff by the imminence of a climate catastrophe, who see how their salaries aren't enough to pay the rent. That's why all the previous values no longer make sense. The whole culture of effort, the whole myth of meritocracy, all of this has collapsed. And when they talk about the preeminence of money in their songs, notice that they don't say: "I've worked hard and earned all these bills." No, the opposite. They say: "I've earned these bills," and you don't want to know how. And the merit lies in having earned them easily and quickly. If no one believes anymore that by working hard you can achieve the life you've been told is a good life, a luxurious life, what did you expect from the songs?

You say Bad Bunny's latest album is a turning point. Why?

— He has become a great ambassador for Latin America, taking musical traditions from different places and creating a narrative.

He says it's hard to understand, also because of the trend of eternal youth.

— Of course, the problem is not killing the daddy, the problem is that the daddy realize that it is daddyBecause I'm 53, and I don't feel old. But, look, I'm 53. And we say Oasis is coming back, like a young man. But the reality is that you see your son listening to reggaeton, you don't understand anything, and that's why you're traumatized: wow, you're not young anymore.

You don't like it.

— I'm not a big fan, no. But I don't think I need to like it to be able to talk about it with some rigor or to be able to make the analysis I propose.